


Burn You To The Ground

by captainskellington



Series: Take The World Back [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (if you want me to tag that as anything stronger let me know), Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Valjean, you can’t just-” Grantaire was cut off when Valjean slowly, deliberately switched off his device and slipped it into his pocket. He made a noise of frustration, and wondered - not for the first time - just what it was he’d fucking gotten himself into.</em>
</p><p>Attack on the Capitol, the rebels' final push. The sequel to the Hunger Games AU <em><a>To Dust Or To Gold</a>. At long last.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry this took so long. Hope you enjoy. (All chapters uploaded at once, as before.)

** CROSS WALKS **

**Day 6, continued**

Outside of the transparent barrier there was nothing but blackness as he travelled into the arena from deep underground. He could see his own reflection in the reflective surface: eyes huge, face white as a sheet. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Grantaire reaching out from the other side of the barrier. His eyes stung so he forced them to open, forced himself to focus.

Enjolras screamed in sheer terror, letting out a week’s worth of carefully contained emotion and frustration in the precious few seconds he had left without the eyes of the world trained on him; maybe the last of such seconds he’d ever experience in what little remained of his life.

He tried to collect himself, breathing heavily, and using the smooth glass of the cylinder encircling him he pushed himself back to his feet, leaving behind two handprints of smeared perspiration. He took a deep breath, then another, then planted his feet firmly so as not to lose his balance.

Suddenly, he was blinded.

The light was unbearable and Enjolras raised his arm to shield his eyes on instinct. When he slowly adjusted to the light and took a look at his surroundings, he felt all the blood rush from his head and had to physically restrain himself from taking a step back in shock. It was just as well he did, too, as there was an equally sheer drop less than a foot behind him.

He’d never seen anything like it. He was placed on a column of what looked like natural orange rock, some 50 feet in the air at the very least. He peered over the edge to see what lay at the bottom, but found it almost impossible, only just managing to make out a pile of scree and boulders tumbling down to level ground. The other tributes were on similar pedestals nearby, spaced evenly in a circle around one main rock formation on which the Cornucopia stood, shining in the sunlight.

The countdown was still ongoing around them. Enjolras was breathing hard already, heart racing in anticipation and dread, chest heaving. This territory was more hostile than he’d been expecting. In the distance at ground level it was hazy, the landscape obscured by a curious fog that was undeterred by the harsh sunlight. Enjolras could make out vague shapes, but from this height and distance they could have been anything from trees, to beasts, to yet more rocks.

He shot a glance to his right and spotted Helene on the column nearest him. She was staring ahead at the Cornucopia in determination. He followed her gaze, his eyes catching on the glint of what looked tantalisingly like a utility belt full of knives near the mouth of the Cornucopia.

There were two ways of going about reaching it, as far as Enjolras could see.

The first and longest route would require clambering down from the column to the bottom and then scaling the formation supporting the Cornucopia, which would waste many precious minutes and leave one vulnerable to attack from anybody still above them on the surrounding columns, as well as being utterly _exhausting_.

The second route was by far more dangerous. Between the individual tributes’ pillars and the Cornucopia there were several narrower, widely spaced columns of various heights and stability, judging by appearance. If he could judge the distance right, it would only be a few quick leaps from pillar to pillar and he would have his pick of the supplies and weaponry scattered in and around the Cornucopia.

There was, of course, a third option: climb down and sprint into the surrounding territory, hoping for a chance to collect sufficient supplies and steal whatever possible from other tributes.

Enjolras didn’t even consider the third option.

He steeled himself, took a calculated step back and waited as the countdown slowly trickled down towards its end. He was careful not to move out of the designated countdown zone that was the plate on which he’d been brought into the arena, but another tribute on the opposite side of the arena obviously wasn’t as lucky as the rest of them.

An explosion was followed by a scream - one of the other tributes’ - and then a cannon shot was heard, smoke drifting up from behind the Cornucopia that had blocked Enjolras from seeing the incident firsthand; all before the countdown had even ended.

Absentmindedly, he wondered where the cameras were situated, and whether or not he was being shown to the nation at this very point in time. Perhaps it was this thought that had him sending a silent apology to Grantaire.

The buzzer rang out, loud and clear.

Enjolras threw himself into the air.

***

“Get up.”

Grantaire couldn’t remember hitting the floor. There was an ache in his knees that meant it had hurt, and he was cold through from the tiles so he’d been there for a while, but he still couldn’t remember the process of getting there.

“Grantaire, please, we’ve got to leave.”

He blinked. The voice came to him as if through fog. He frowned and shook his head to clear it, the world coming back into focus as he did so.

It hurt.

Jehan was shaking his shoulder urgently, his expression deceptively passive but eyes urgent. “Look, Grantaire, there’s nothing you can do for him now. You’ve got to come with us-” here he nodded to where Valjean was standing by the door, effectively barring anyone from entering the room.

When Grantaire still failed to react, Jehan lowered his voice. “Look, we promised Enjolras we’d look after you, and unless we all stick together we can’t keep that promise. You’re one of us now, which means you’ve got a part to play in this whole hellstorm that’s about to pass, and right now that means you have to _get up_ and come with us before they take you somewhere we can’t get to you, you got me?”

Grantaire nodded slowly and got to his feet. Jehan hesitated then shrugged his sleeve down to cover his hand, swiftly and efficiently dragging it across Grantaire’s face to catch tears he hadn’t even realised he’d cried.

It took a lot more than it used to, but Grantaire forced his expression to settle into the one of bored nonchalance that he’d worn every single day of his life leading up to the last week. _Fuck, had it only been a week?_

“Okay,” when he spoke his voice was hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Okay. Where are we going?”

Jehan’s expression was grim, his tone apologetic. “To smile for the cameras.”

Grantaire clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He saw Jehan’s eyes snag on his neck, could only imagine the wilting mess that the vines there must have started to resemble. He tugged his shirt collar up high, wincing when he caught the faint, familiar scent still lingering on the material.

He turned away from Jehan’s sympathetic eyes only to find himself face to face with Valjean.

“If anyone can do it, it’s him,” Valjean said with such conviction Grantaire would have believed him even if he hadn’t already been thinking the same. “Trust me, I’ve been there, and that kid has more fight in him than I’ve ever seen in anybody. But I have to warn you, these guys are going to force you to watch footage of him that I can promise you won’t all be sunshine and modelesque poses, though he’s pretty enough there’ll likely be plenty of those too. It’s going to hurt, but you’re going to have to deal with it. You can’t show any weakness. Do it for him.”

***

Enjolras' foot shot out from under him as one of the pillars crumbled under his weight.

He let out a cry and threw all of his weight forward onto the next platform, completely thrown off balance by the previous leap. As such, he very nearly missed it, jarring his ankle and teetering on the edge before he managed to right himself and hop to the next - thankfully, nearer - column of rock.

He wanted more than anything to check the progress of the others, but he knew the risk of losing concentration for even a second was too great. He carried on leaping and stumbling, heart in his throat, blood roaring in his ears.

 _Nearly there, nearly there,_ he told himself, and he made it to the very last pillar before it happened.

A piercing scream shattered the air and Enjolras' head shot up. He saw nothing, his view again blocked by the mass of the Cornucopia, but he mistimed his last step and felt his foot slip away from him.

His stomach dropped through the floor. He'd gotten nowhere near enough power from the step, and he knew it.

He flung his arms out in front of him in a last-ditch attempt to bridge the final gap between him and relative safety.

He slammed into the side of the rock with force enough to knock all the wind out of him. The relief at making contact was short lived as he scrabbled to get purchase on the rock with his feet and hands. He dug his fingers into the dirt, a desperate torrent of curses escaping his mouth as his grip began to slip.

"Enjolras!"

The cry came from Helene, already on the rock with a backpack and scimitar slung across her back, the blade too long to buckle to her belt without dragging on the ground.

She ran to him, skidding to a halt in the dust, and wrapped both hands around his right arm in a viselike grip.

"Enjolras, come on," she grunted, pulling with all her might.

"Helene, go, please, before someone-"

"I am not leaving you to die, you moron. Shake a leg and get your butt up here before I _kick_ it."

A foothold crumbled and Enjolras' body was jerked backwards by gravity. Helene let out an alarmed squeak.

Suddenly another pair of small hands had grabbed his other arm and an unfamiliar voice said, "On three. One, two-"

Together the two of them heaved, and Enjolras kicked desperately against the uneven rock at his feet, and then he was being hauled over the edge to safety.

Well, relative safety. This was the most literal case of ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’ that Enjolras had ever come across.

"Thank you," he gasped, scrambling to his feet, his chest heaving, hands and face stinging from where they'd scraped against the rock.

His rescuer was a young boy, no older than Helene, with dirty blonde hair and piercing eyes. He already had two sets of knives strapped across his chest and was eyeing Enjolras appraisingly.

"Don't mention it," he grunted. "We need you."

And then, perplexingly, he was gone; slipping over the edge of the rock and scrambling down like he was born to it.

 _8_ , Enjolras noted belatedly, catching sight of the number on his shoulder patch before he dropped from sight.

He was distracted by Helene hitting him. "Enjolras, wake up! Get it together, what is wrong with you?" she cried, voice edging on pleading.

He shook himself, staggering a step and righting himself precariously near the edge of the rock. "Go, Helene," he urged, steadying himself. "I'll find you. Find cover. Go. _Be careful._ "

"Says you," she grinned halfheartedly, then she too disappeared.

Just in time, as it happened, because that was the moment a large chunk of rock was launched into the space where she'd been standing.

Enjolras reeled and his system righted itself, locking into fight mode. All fear and shock and apprehension was flushed out of his body by sheer, pulsating adrenaline.

He dodged another missile, diving forward and ducking behind a crate; empty. He would need to get closer if there was any hope of gleaning supplies before he fled. He grabbed a sizeable rock and sprung to his feet, pitching it straight at his assailant; the girl from 7. It caught her in the collarbone and she winced, knocked back slightly.

He sprinted then for the mouth of the Cornucopia, all the supplies that had been scattered further out having now been taken by those who made it there before him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that there were still two or three tributes hesitantly picking their way across the columns between them and the main platform, fear of falling to their deaths stronger than the fear of another tribute picking them off with a ranged weapon.

He barrelled right into the girl from 7, aiming for surprise rather than any sort of finesse and succeeding as he knocked her to her back, winding her and thus removing her from his list of immediate concerns. He was on his feet again in seconds, slinging a nearby backpack across his shoulders as he ran, not stopping to check the contents.

Looking forward he noticed the belt of knives he’d seen was no longer there, as he’d feared would happen. He veered off course to stoop and pull a short metal spear from where it was embedded in the ground; better to arm himself in some way at least before diving into the inevitable Cornucopia bloodbath.

He was right to do so; as soon as he neared the mouth of the menacing metal structure a blade was thrown at another tribute and missed, instead soaring past him to slice a shallow line along the left side of Enjolras’ neck. He hissed at the sudden pain, forcing himself to carry on rather than inspect the damage done, but first he stopped for a fleeting second to pry the knife from the crate it had stuck in, quivering, and slide it into his belt.

He was starting to get the feeling he would need anything and everything he could get his hands on. Rounding the corner, he found that he was right. A group of careers had already gathered in the center, picking off anybody who came close.

Three of them turned and saw him as he lurched forwards, grabbing blindly at the contents of the nearest crate and stuffing them into his backpack. There was a sudden sharp sting of pain and he glanced down, looking past the blood on his finger to snatch up the cold metal of a machete.

When he next looked up, he cried out in shock. A hulking, mean looking tribute stood before him, a hand shooting out to twist in his hair. Enjolras cried out again, this time in pain, flailing wildly only to be released almost immediately with a howl of pain on the part of the career.

The career clutched his side, blood trickling from the gash in his ribcage where Enjolras had struck him with his blade. Enjolras scrambled backwards desperately, slipping in the dirt and  making his way to the edge of the rock as fast as he could.

“You’ll die for that, pretty boy,” the career snarled, face twisting in rage as he took a step towards Enjolras. His two companions were shouting, cheering him on, Enjolras had no idea where the rest of the tributes were but he couldn’t worry about that now there was no time he had to get away he had to get off the rock and to safety he had to-

He swung his legs over the edge of the rock and grasped desperately at the rock face, fingers almost bending backwards at how hard he was holding on. He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling rock crumble away under his shoes and between his fingers. Only moments ago he was in the same position and climbing up for his life, but now he was doing the exact opposite, and this was in no way the time to realise a long dormant fear of heights.

He climbed and climbed, feet slipping, hands shaking. His heart was in his throat, his shoulders aching, he couldn’t look down to see how long he had left for fear of falling. So on he went, breath catching, backpack bumping hard against his spine.

Then an arrow embedded itself deep into his right shoulder and he lost his grip, slipping from the cliff face with a shout. Way above him, he could just make out the careers leaning over to watch him fall, too far away for him to make out who’d fired the arrow.

Everything went black.

He was out before he hit the ground.

***

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Grantaire started. He’d been completely zoned out, eyes fixed on the enormous screen suspended above them all - not dissimilar to the one he’d seen Enjolras on for the very first time - and only responding to potential sponsors and “esteemed associates” when prompted by Valjean and Jehan.

This evening, this event, it was all too much for him to take after the happenings of the day. His eye kept catching on random things like crystal chandeliers, diamond glasses, platinum _doorknobs_ , for God’s sake - and all he could think about was how pointless and shallow this society had become, maybe had always been. It killed kids to teach their districts a “lesson” when they’d been in the right all along.

The presence of so much alcohol wasn’t helping matters, either. It was everywhere, and he was in far too delicate a mindspace to have to deal with this much vile temptation; and yet here he was, grinning and bearing it, his anguish unbeknownst to everyone but Jehan and Valjean.

He hadn’t even noticed anyone else approaching him.

He turned slightly to address the man at his side. He was a bizarre looking creature, even for the Capitol; thin and almost unnaturally tall, his skin was painted - _dyed?_ \- pure white, all his features eerily enhanced by a black substance so dark that no light escaped it. His clothes - shirt, waistcoat, tights, shorts - in stark contrast, were all nauseatingly bright; clashing neon oranges and yellows, as per the current “trend”.

“Sorry?” Grantaire asked, trying not to squint when he looked at the man.

He grinned to reveal sharpened teeth, which was… alarming, to say the least.

“The arena,” he clarified, gesturing towards the screen. On it, highlights of the last couple of hours were being shown; one of the few tributes who’d elected to scale down their original platform and try their luck on living off the supplies offered by the arena itself was just reaching the edge of the desert land and stumbling through a thick, nigh impenetrable jungle. “The theme we decided on this year was ‘Extremes’.”

Instead of making his disgust evident, Grantaire chose to school his face into a mildly confused expression. Obviously thrilled at having found what he clearly thought to be a captive audience, the man grinned even wider, showing more teeth than Grantaire thought should be able to fit in one mouth.

“Here, I’ll show you,” he whispered in a conspiratory manner. He waved a hand and a screen came to life out of seemingly thin air, then repeated the gesture a few times. Soon the screen was covered in what would appear to be a map of the arena, complete with small coloured tags showing where each tribute was at that particular moment; currently clustered not too far from the Cornucopia, for the most part.

“The middle of the arena is desert,” he zoomed in to the platform and the surrounding area. That much Grantaire had seen, the rocks and sand weren’t exactly easy to miss. “The next ring is equatorial jungle,” Grantaire frowned at the word as the man tapped the screen to show him. _Equatorial?_ “And then we have delightfully inhospitable mountains, and then to the edge of the arena it’s pure tundra,” Grantaire swallowed at the sight of the frozen wastelands, mouth suddenly dry.

“As I said,” the man returned his attention to Grantaire with a cruel smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it? The people wanted harsh, they wanted pain, I gave them the exact conditions to make that possible. It’s perfect, even if I do say so myself. We had to blast a huge landmass and implement drastic techniques to ensure the upkeep of the desert and jungle in the middle of the icelands, but it’s going to have been _so_ worth it.”

Grantaire could feel nausea and anger roiling inside him in equal measures, but before he could do something he’d regret, two people appeared to distract him.

The first was a stout, frightfully unfriendly looking woman dressed and made up in a manner identical to the man. “Dearest,” she hissed, in an entirely unloving manner. “You aren’t supposed to be showing people that. Do you even know who you’re _speaking_ to?”

At the same time, Jehan materialised by Grantaire’s side, and before Grantaire could subtly berate him for abandoning him in this hellish environment Jehan was taking his arm and squeezing it in warning. “Ah, Grantaire, I see you’ve met our head Gamemakers for this year,” Jehan said breezily. “Allow me to introduce you. Grantaire, this is M. and Mme. Thenardier, formerly of District 3; Monsieur and Madame, this is my fellow stylist for District 12, Grantaire. And if you’ll excuse me, Valjean has been looking for us.”

With that, he pulled Grantaire away from the Thenardiers and their what could only be described as comically horrified expressions. Evidently, he had some reputation he wasn’t previously aware of, and it wasn’t anything good.

“Well, congratulations,” Jehan said drily, without moving his lips, speaking low and still determinedly dragging him through the crowd towards wherever Valjean was. “You’ve just accidentally gotten us accurate info on the arena layout, the exact details of which have been eluding us for _months._ Keep up the good work.”

Grantaire had yet to come to terms with the changes he was seeing in his friend; calculating and steely, there was a lot more to Jehan under the timid, helpless persona he always wore, and Grantaire was just beginning to see him for who he really was.

All of this slipped from his mind as he pushed between two partygoers, only to see an all-too familiar face emblazoned across somebody’s t-shirt. He froze and Jehan turned, frowning, trying to work out what had tugged Grantaire’s arm out from his grip.

“Ah,” was all he managed to say before Grantaire bolted, shoving his way out onto a nearby balcony and gulping down the heavy evening air as if it could be some kind of tonic.

Jehan caught up to him quickly, making excuses and breezy apologies as he brushed past bemused onlookers. “Grantaire, I’m sorry,” he said gently, moving so as to subtly block Grantaire from view.  “I was going to warn you about that, but I didn’t think they’d have started selling them already.”

“This is too much,” Grantaire muttered, face completely drained of colour. He tugged at his hair in despair, eyes wide as he turned to Jehan. “I have to see him on that screen. I can do that. That’s how I know he’s alive, that he’s keeping going, it sucks but it’s the only way.” He dragged a hand down his face, pausing to take another deep, shaky breath. “But fucking _merchandise_ with his _face_ on it?” He shook his head rapidly. “Why would you buy it. Why. These people are going to die. These _children_ are going to _die_. And they’re printing shirts with their faces on them. In what world is this okay?”

“Their world,” Jehan said. “The world that we’re going to change.”

“We’re leaving,” Grantaire whispered in return, shaky but firm. “Now.”

“Alright,” Jehan replied slowly. “Are you still with us?”

Grantaire sighed, all fight leaving him.

“Even more so,” he said.

***

Enjolras woke with a start when the cannons signalling the end of the initial bloodbath began to fire.

He staggered uneasily to his feet, pain shooting through him, aware of distant cheering coming from atop the central rock. They must have just assumed he had fallen far enough to kill him, not thought him worth the trek down and back up again to make sure. Any minute now they’d realise their mistake, one cannon shot short.

The world spun ceaselessly around him. A numbed ache had settled over his shoulder, but it still twanged with pain when he moved it. He turned his head to look and saw the arrow on the ground where he’d fallen. Maybe the force of the fall had knocked it out? His head was spinning from loss of blood, probably a concussion too.

He stumbled and caught himself on the rock wall, looking out to the forest in the distance.

He put pressure on his shoulder with his good hand, braced himself, and broke into a run.

***

In the control room of the Capitol building, Felix Tholomyes’ mouth stretched into a curve. It was not a smile, as it contained no happiness whatsoever; it more rather a gesture of malice than anything.

“M. President?” the young gamemaker repeated, not without a nervous hesitation.

“Felix; call me Felix,” the president turned his not-smile to the man, who did his very best not to recoil. His counsel told him that letting the commoners address him by first name humanized him. He wasn’t sure he believed them. “Well? What is it?”

“We have several instances in place to - to take care of tribute 12M. Shall we deploy them?”

“Hmm,” Felix turned to the large projection that hung over the control room, considering what he saw. Enjolras had made it into the jungle, dragging himself up into the relative safety of a tree and collapsing, gasping in pain from his injuries.

A column of statistics scrolled continuously to the right of the projection, and oh, it would be so easy, _so easy_ to finish the irksome child then and there; venomous muttations, poisonous gases, fire, lightning, earthquakes. All this and more at his fingertips, just waiting to be used.

But then…

“I think, not yet,” Felix laughed, and it was as joyless at it was dark. “Let him suffer.”

The gamemaker inclined his head.

“As you wish, M. Pres- Felix.”

***

 

**Day 7**

Grantaire slept restlessly, woke early and snuck out of Jehan’s room, heading for the nearest screen to check up on Enjolras.

He’d had to stay in the other man’s room; as soon as he stepped back in the room he thought of as his own now - even after having been there for just a week - he was overwhelmed with thoughts of Enjolras. Curled up in his bed, kissing, smiling, talking, crying; it was just too much.

Jehan had simply put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to his own bed, and that was that. No words necessary.

He was more relieved than he could possibly imagine to see that Enjolras still lived, and Helene with him. She was further into the jungle, a good mile at least from Enjolras, but she seemed safe and well.

Actually, it wasn’t relief he was feeling. Rather, he was completely numb with fear and apprehension; receiving information on Enjolras’ condition did nothing but make his own circumstances almost bearable.

“Grantaire,” Valjean greeted him softly. The contraption that ensured the privacy of their conversation was in his hand and activated. “There’s something we ought to discuss.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “If this is about the - the _plan_ , you should know I don’t think I can bear to do much more than go along with it as it happens.”

Valjean hesitated. “You’re sure?”

“Basics, I can take. Maybe. But besides that,” Grantaire shook his head. “You might be able to deal with the enormity of this… This situation, but you’ve had longer to wrap your head around it. You’re integral to it. I’m in it to keep my friends alive, that’s all.”

“Then _you_ should know, your friends play a bigger part in all of this than you’re aware of,” Valjean said gently.

Grantaire whipped his head around to face him. “What?”

Valjean considered him carefully, then it was his turn to shake his head. “No, you’re too agitated to hear it now, and I’m not sure I should be the one to tell you. Jehan can explain later, once you’ve eaten and calmed down some.”

“Valjean, you can’t just-” Grantaire was cut off when Valjean slowly, deliberately switched off his device and slipped it into his pocket. He made a noise of frustration, and wondered - not for the first time - just what it was he’d fucking gotten himself into.

***

Enjolras muffled a cry of pain by biting his fist. His head was still throbbing, and his shoulder- a wave of nausea washed over him when he moved. Somehow it had gotten much worse; could it have been infected somehow? He shuddered and carefully took his good hand away from his mouth to wrap around the tree’s trunk for safety.

Gritting his teeth in determination, he rotated his shoulder in a minute circle, and nearly passed out from the movement. He was covered in cold sweat from a night of almost no sleep and was distantly aware of the fact that he hadn’t had a drink in something near 24 hours.

Seeking to distract himself from the pain, he repositioned himself on a sturdier branch to free his good arm and rummage around in his pillaged rucksack. He’d unceremoniously shoved his machete and knife in there to make easier the feat of climbing the tree, tearing the material of the bag in places.

Besides his meagre arsenal, the bag contained an empty flask, a reinforced blanket, a length of bandage (which he immediately put to use on his shoulder, to little avail), and a flare, of all things. Not much to survive on - he would _really_ need to acquire a source of food and water - but a start at least.

All the information he had for certain was that when the time came, he needed to be near enough to the Cornucopia so that Combeferre and Courfeyrac could locate and evacuate him with ease. Which was a problem in itself, given that the Cornucopia was infested with careers and his busted shoulder meant scaling the column again was nigh on impossible.

Enjolras decided to cross that bridge when he came to it.

He considered his options. He should try to find Helene, but he had no idea where to even begin; he didn’t even know where in the arena she was, he’d gotten all turned around at the Cornucopia.

Water, he decided. His best bet was to find water.

Enjolras steeled himself and began the arduous climb back down to the ground.

He could only hope that his friends were having more luck than him.

***

Grantaire spent the majority of the day glued to the screens.

It physically pained him to see Enjolras suffer. And not just Enjolras, either. He winced when a tribute took a blow to the head, a cut to the shin, when one girl slipped and tumbled down a steep hill. How could anybody see this happening and consider it entertainment? What was wrong with people?

Jehan had to go deal with the publicity side of things because Grantaire was otherwise engaged - and because he was the one with the far better poker face - so Grantaire didn’t get to question him about Valjean’s implications until he returned late in the evening.

Jehan sighed and came to his side.

“Come out to the balcony and get some air. You’ve spent too much time looking at that screen.”

“Jehan-”

“If he dies it won’t make any difference whether or not you’re watching, Grantaire,” he snapped, and Grantaire flinched. Jehan winced. “I’m sorry, that was cruel.”

“No,” Grantaire replied quietly. “It was true.”

Reluctantly, he got to his feet and traipsed after Jehan to Valjean’s balcony. It was warm outside, and the sky glowed orange as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

It was silent for a few moments, during which time Grantaire could think of nothing but Enjolras, and then Jehan spoke.

“I gather Valjean told you about our mutual friends earlier.”

“Only that they were involved more than I was previously aware,” Grantaire glanced at him. “This has something to do with how you know Bahorel, doesn’t it?”

Jehan nodded. “It has everything to do with it. It has everything to do with… Well, everything, really,” he hesitated. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, but it’s probably better if I do. Please, just get it over with.”

“What do you know about the last rebellion?”

Grantaire frowned. “There hasn’t been one for decades.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jehan said, pausing to choose his words before explaining. “Eleven years ago was the closest we’ve ever come - until now - to overthrowing Felix and his people. There were underground clubs that recruited people, everyone willing and able to help was sought out and equipped. You had to be careful, though, because you could never be too sure who was a genuine rebel recruiter and who was a Capitol spy. That was something I learned all too quickly, and it nearly cost the whole operation. It was also, incidentally, how I met Feuilly.”

Grantaire was surprised. “Feuilly?”

Jehan chuckled. “Who do you think recruited me? Bahorel? No, he was recruited around the same time as me. Feuilly saved my ass more times than I could count, and never expected a thing in return. I’d imagine there are a good few more people who would say the same, if they’re still alive.” He coughed, and then continued.

“But anyway, it was in full swing. We had people in high places, every single recruit was willing to give their lives for the cause, everyone ready to raise utter hell. And there was this incredible, brave woman; she placed herself in Felix’s inner circle, let him claim her for his wife. All the while she fed us a steady stream of vital information: security details, passwords, ammunition quantities, military movements, anything and everything she could get her hands on. They had a daughter, I think. Her and Felix. I wouldn’t know, I was too caught up in all the crazy shit they had us doing - I say crazy, but it’s exactly the same as now. Although maybe what’s going on now is every bit as crazy as it was back then. Fuck knows, everything’s gone to shit.”

Grantaire watched as Jehan physically shook himself, removing the fog from his eyes before returning to his story.

“Granted, everything _then_ went to shit, too. To this day we don’t know what really happened. One moment, we’re a breath from rising up and taking those bastards by surprise, sacking the city, taking back our lives; the next, every leader in our organisation is being taken from their homes and shot in the head. Understandably, we all panicked and abandoned ship. All that preparation, all the careful planning, dropped like hot lead.”

“It was down to her, we think. The woman. Maybe she had a surge of doubt and confessed all to Felix, though I don’t think that’s likely. I think she was caught snooping, or a message was intercepted, or somebody betrayed her along with the rest of us. Nobody knows because nobody’s seen her since. The last anyone heard from her was the most terrifying transmission I’ve seen to this day; three little letters: ‘ _RUN_ ’. She’s the only reason any of us got out alive, I think. Ever since then the resistance has had to build itself up again from scratch, bit by miniscule bit, but for one thing; the final push we had intended has been integrated into the new scheme, and it’s all the better for it.”

Jehan cast him a sidelong glance. “Valjean says you don’t want to know too much, so I won’t say what we were… Still are, planning. Myself and Bahorel were placed on the same team, given the same task to carry out. We were, and still are, brothers in arms. We parted ways for the sake of inconspicuousness, frankly I’m surprised him and Feuilly were able to come together without raising alarm bells, but I suppose it’s been long enough now that most traces back to the organisation have been lost. Regardless, this last week is the first time we’ve communicated directly in over 10 years, thanks to you.”

Grantaire couldn’t even muster up the energy required to respond with a sarcastic ‘you’re welcome’.

“As soon as they discovered I was still involved they wanted back in, to finish what we started. I can’t blame them, I’ve never been able to stay away either. And we’ll be a hell of a lot more efficient for them, because every detail of what we do over the next few days has been etched in all of our minds for the last decade.”

It was hard for Grantaire to process this all. No wonder Feuilly and Bahorel had been so willing to take him in, to shelter Cosette, to offer Eponine a home after her parents turned her out; still recruiting, even after all this time.

“Eleven years ago,” he repeated, a sudden realisation dawning on him. “Jehan, how fucking old were you?”

Jehan grimaced. “Thirteen,” he whispered. “I was thirteen.”

Grantaire’s head swam. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. When he was twelve and getting beaten up in school hallways for saying he thought the Games were wrong, boys one year older than him were _literally giving their lives_ to do something about it. And he never even knew.

“Bahorel was fourteen, Feuilly must have been around eighteen,” Jehan continued, his eyes glazing over. “They caught and killed almost everyone older. Weren’t you wondering why every single person we have now is at the very most in their twenties?”

“It never even… What about Valjean?” Grantaire asked. “What was his involvement?”

“Valjean didn’t come into play until later,” Jehan said. “Keep in mind that he still spends eleven out of twelve months in his District. Back then, there was very little he could have done to contribute. But he’s always supported what we’re doing, and we’re better now, more prepared than we ever were before.”

“Do you think we can actually do this?” Grantaire whispered, suddenly unsure as to whether or not he should ask for full details of the plan. On the one hand, he was in a fragile enough state that the realities of the task ahead would probably be more than capable of rendering him completely insane and therefore useless. But on the other hand… What was he gaining from not knowing? “Do you think we have a chance?”

“I think we’ll win, or we’ll die trying,” said Jehan, expression grim. “Either way, we’re taking as many of these bastards with us as possible, mark my words.”

Grantaire looked at the man he thought was his friend, almost unrecognisable in this moment. The man who feigned almost childlike frailty and innocence to appear unthreatening, who was willing to kill and be killed when he was barely a teenager, who watched so many of his friends and mentors die and lost everyone he loved all in the space of but a few years.

It occurred to him then just how dangerous the people he was dealing with were.

“Jehan,” Grantaire asked. “Just what is it that we’re going to do?”

Jehan grimaced. “Trust me,” he said. “You’re better not knowing.”

Grantaire believed him.

***

Courfeyrac walked with a swagger. His stride was bubbly by nature, but he enjoyed the added arrogance and the irritation it caused with the peacekeepers. His footsteps echoed through the cobbled streets only to become muffled when he reached the dirt roads of the residential sector of District 12.

Don’t get him wrong: internally, he was a total mess. He’d been completely on edge ever since Enjolras went to the Capitol, and now that he was actually in the arena and their plan was moving from preparatory stages to actually carrying it out… Anxious would be putting it lightly.

The streets were empty, everybody already inside for their mandatory viewing of the games, just 15 minutes before curfew. Courfeyrac himself would have been with them had he not been so busy, he didn’t normally cut things this fine; he had a reputation to… Well, keep hidden. He sneezed and rubbed his face - the coal dust got absolutely everywhere, even when you worked in the local school.

He ducked into his house and slid the bolt shut on the door, waving to his mother as he passed through the kitchen. She pursed her lips, an expression of discontent evident on her face: she was as supportive as anyone when it came to the cause, but that didn’t mean she was anywhere near happy with her son being at the helm.

Courfeyrac heard her sigh and go off to close the shutters before the official broadcast started. His sister and niece were sitting at the table in the gathering room, bleary eyed with exhaustion and warily watching the small screen installed in the wall. He smiled at them as he edged around the chairs, slipping into his mother’s room.

He stepped into the closet, being careful to shut the door behind him, then removed the panel from the back wall and crawled through the passage into his neighbor’s home, coming out in the pantry connected to the kitchen. He bit his lip when he noticed how pitifully empty it was, making a mental note to invite them all over for dinner soon before continuing into the kitchen. He then quickly discarded the thought: in a matter of days lack of food would no longer be an issue; for better or for worse.

“Evening,” he greeted Combeferre’s brother with a smile. The kid gave him a toothy grin and put his finger over his lips, darting away into another room. Courfeyrac shook his head fondly and moved to the fireplace. His fingers probed around the floor, looking for the seam - _there_ \- and swinging the plate open on its hinge, ignoring the coal dust he was coating himself in.

From there it was a quick climb down a ladder and a few minutes of stumbling gracelessly down a pitch black corridor before he reached the first lamp light of the underground.

“You’re late,” came a familiar voice, and he grinned as Combeferre stepped into the light, rolls of paper under his arm, covered in just as fine a layer of dust as Courfeyrac himself.

“You didn’t wait for me,” Courfeyrac pouted, falling into step with him to continue further down the winding corridors. “I had to be greeted by your little brother. And while I love Hector, little cutie that he is, he’s not quite you, is he?”

Combeferre’s gaze was distant, and he took in none of this. “Enjolras’ shoulder is going to complicate things.”

Courfeyrac smiled sadly. “What’s one more complication to add into the mix?”

Combeferre shrugged as if to concede the point. “Nothing we can do about it now, at any rate.” He paused, then leaned heavily into Courfeyrac’s side when he stopped beside him. “I’m sorry, I never even say ‘hi’ anymore, do I? Hello.” He pressed a kiss to Courfeyrac’s cheek.

“Well, there are more pressing matters of late,” Courfeyrac blushed in the dark, but he allowed a moment to lean their foreheads together before they had to get on their way again. He couldn’t help feeling guilty even though he _knew_ there was nothing wrong with their love for each other; the years of indoctrination weren’t for nothing. They left a mark. “We almost ready?” he asked, suddenly solemn, indicating the furls of paper under Combeferre’s arm as he did.

Combeferre laughed bitterly. “As much as we’ll ever be,” he sighed. “We’re just waiting for Bossuet to report back from that peacekeeper in 5 - Montparnasse, was it?”

Montparnasse was a godsend, truly. He wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person in the world, but he cared about his own happiness above all and agreed that the correct path to achieving this aligned itself with what they were working towards.

Which was lucky for them, as 5 was the District that both provided the Capitol with power, _and_ had several hovercraft in for repairs, a couple of which he was to commandeer for the rebel uses - namely, collecting Enjolras and his allies from the arena.

“Anyway, we’re really just waiting for his all-clear, then we’ll get Jeh- the insurgents,” Combeferre corrected himself. Courfeyrac shifted uneasily; they were trying to refrain from referring to each other by name, trying to detach themselves from each other. It wouldn’t do to lose their heads at a crucial moment due to an unnecessary emotional response... Or something. Whatever, it made Courfeyrac uncomfortable.

“We’ll signal to them to begin, and that will start the whole thing in motion. There’s not much else to be done,” Combeferre admitted.

A blur pushed past in the dark; Joly, looking frantic and cradling a multitude of old - _ancient_ \- rifles under one arm and crushing a transmission in his hand.

“Joly?” Combeferre’s voice returned to one of authority to address their friend. It was reassuring, even though Courfeyrac could see through his apparently calm demeanour to the stress and fear beneath.

“There you are! Bossuet returned. It’s all in position,” Joly babbled. “The device has been successfully smuggled from 3 into 5, the blast range should definitely knock out the generators of most if not all of the Capitol. Montparnasse will see to it that it’s detonated after the hovercraft have left. Everything else is up to us.”

Joly’s eyes were glittering with fear, and Courfeyrac swallowed his own dread to smile reassuringly at him. “Time to begin, I suppose?”

“We won’t be able to send the insurgents a message until the early morning, and I doubt they’ll be able to act before nightfall tomorrow,” Combeferre reasoned. “We’ll need to be ready to take the hovercraft as soon as reports start flooding in so we can get away in the chaos… And then Montparnasse can take care of the detonation. We’ll go in as soon as the tributes are safe.”

“But yes,” Combeferre finished. “Time to begin.”

***

 

** CROSSED HEARTS **

**Day 8**

Enjolras stumbled on a tree root, jarring his shoulder and almost knocking himself flying. His head was dizzy with thirst. He thought for a second that they would perhaps be better off calling these the Dehydration Games, for all the good it would do. He giggled at himself; that just didn’t have the same ring to it, he supposed.

He snapped out of his hysterical - he knew it was hysteria, he just couldn’t find it in himself to care - reverie and focussed on the task at hand. Water. Food. Water. Food. _Survive_.

He paused, leaning heavily against a tree. He should have probably slept at some point too, but nowhere was safe. Earlier he’d had to run from a career trio, their jeers and taunts following him until he lost them, getting himself hopelessly lost in doing so.

It was hot in the jungle, Enjolras reasoned when he started to wonder why he was lying on the ground.

If he lay there long enough, maybe all the heat would rise up from his body and he’d cool down enough to sleep.

His shoulder ached.

Distantly, he was aware that he should be getting up, moving on, doing anything but this. He was supposed to be the figurehead of a revolution, the  leader of the people. He was supposed to fight. Be brave. Put on a show.

He felt like crying, except he assumed he lacked the sufficient water content to be able to do so.

The last thing he noticed before passing into blissful unconsciousness was a tree shouting his name.

***

Grantaire knew something was up as soon as he opened his eyes. Jehan was sitting up in bed, Valjean standing by his side. It was still early, the lights all off, and Grantaire could barely make out the grim set of Valjean’s mouth in the gloom.

All trace of sleep vanished from his system and suddenly his veins were thrumming with adrenaline.

“What,” he hissed, sitting up, and they turned to him.

“Good, you’re awake,” Valjean said quietly. “I’ve received a message from Courfeyrac. Everything is in place.”

The enormity of what Valjean meant took a moment to sink in. “So you mean…”

Valjean nodded. “We move out tonight. I’ll send word to the others to confirm, then we'll go to radio silence and it's all on us. We'll lose contact come phase 2, so we're on our own from hereon out."

Silence fell even as the sun crept into the sky, warm light flooding the room from the windows Grantaire had forgotten to dim before he passed out for the night.

Jehan was carefully watching Grantaire for how he dealt with the news, and he sighed as all the colour drained out of him.

He exchanged a look with Valjean. “You might as well keep an eye on Enjolras,” he said to Grantaire. “We’ll take care of everything else, if you’re sure you still want to know the bare minimum?”

Grantaire nodded mechanically and rose to his feet, heading for the door only to be stopped by Valjean.

“Clothes,” he muttered, then let the room.

Grantaire sighed, then moved to get dressed.

***

“ _This_ is the guy who’s leading us to victory?” the somewhat familiar voice wriggled into Enjolras’ subconscious. Dawn light began to bleed underneath his eyelids and he groaned, pressing a hand to his head.

His fingers encountered a strip of cloth, and the strange sensation was enough to jolt him into wakefulness. His eyes shot open and he jolted into a seated position, swearing at the pain that seared into his head.

“Drink this,” Helene shoved a curled leaf in his face as the world came into focus.

“You can’t drink leaves?” Enjolras said, but he sounded unsure, and the boy with Helene gave her a pointed look.

“He’s had a knock to the head, Gav. He’s usually more intelligent than this. There’s water in the leaf, Enjolras, drink it,” she said, turning to him again. “Don’t wriggle around so much, we’re up a tree.”

“I’ve realised,” Enjolras replied drily, coming to his senses a little though his head was still pounding. He eyed the boy warily as he took the drink, careful not to show how desperately he needed it. He now realised he was propped up on a wide limb against a higher branch some way up a tree, and the cloth binding his head was part of his own shirt, now several inches shorter. “How long have I been out?”

‘Gav’ shrugged. “A couple hours. Maybe closer to five. We’ve no way of telling. The sun doesn’t really move here, more… Switches on and off.”

Enjolras peered upwards through the leaves - distantly wondering how much of the last two days he’d spent unconscious and/or up trees - and noted that the sun was dead overhead, which should have meant noontime.

“It just sits there for twelve hours then goes out like a lamp being switched off, boom, suddenly, moon,” the kid sighed, scrubbing his face with one hand, his expression bordering on bored. “It might actually be the middle of the night, for all we know.”

“This is Gavroche, since clearly neither of you are going to rectify your ignorance on your own,” Helene shook her head. “He’s a friend, Enjolras, stop looking at him like-”

She never got to finish her sentence, interrupted by a curse from Gavroche and a hand flung between them. “Listen,” he hissed, staring through a patch of leaves to the left of Enjolras.

There was nothing for a moment or so, then Enjolras heard a thin wail followed by hysterical laughter, slowly increasing in volume, and then he heard the swift passage of many, clumsy feet through the undergrowth.

Then he smelled smoke.

All three tributes’ eyes opened wide.

“I was going to say we could climb out of view, but-”

“Fire. Run.”

“Yeah.”

They hastily gathered up their packs and fled down the trunk, adrenaline coursing through their veins, Enjolras gasping at the sudden resurgence of the pain in his shoulder. No time to pause, he gritted his teeth and followed Helene and Gavroche deeper into the woods.

Behind them came whoops and hollers and one bloodcurdling shriek as the fire caught up to one unlucky victim.

Enjolras made an effort to breathe heavily through his mouth.

They ran.

***

“Finally, we’re getting some use out of him. No audio available from the tree?”

“N-no, sir, the kid - 8 - he dug out our bugs. We have literally no way of telling how he knew where they were, I’m sorry, I-”

A muted pop. A sickening thud. Silence.

“Learn from your colleague’s mistake. Nobody else comes to me with failures and excuses. Cut the fire and send the first wave of mutts after them, draw both forest edge groups together.” A pause. “And clean that mess up.”

More silence.

***

Honestly, if Enjolras had known how uneven the ratio of fighting to running was that he would have to do in the Games, he might have put down his weapons and taken a few more laps around the training zone in the city.

“Have we… Lost them…?” Gavroche gasped. Helene shushed him for fear of him giving away their position. True, they hadn’t heard any voices for some minutes, but the air was eerily still; in fact, they hadn’t heard _anything_ for a very long time.

“Shouldn’t there at least be birds or something?” Helene hissed, obviously thinking along the same lines as Enjolras and forgetting her own advice to Gavroche only moments earlier. He glared and made a face at her but stayed silent.

They were under a broadleafed plant deep in the undergrowth of the forest, ready to spring up and away should the fire crackle any closer or any unfriendly tributes crash through the trees. Enjolras was bent over double trying not to empty out what little was in his stomach, grimacing after having jarred his shoulder again. All he could manage was a vague shrug of his good shoulder in return.

It was cool, crouched on the damp earth in the shade of the bush, a slight breeze stirring the leaves and making shadows dance over their faces. Recovered for the most part, Enjolras slumped to the ground, wheezing as quietly as they could manage. What light did filter through the trees was warm and bright, miniscule spores drifting in the air, and Enjolras could feel himself relaxing. He turned his head lazily to regard the others.

Gavroche seemed to have nodded off, his head on his chest, and one of the spores on his nose. Helene, too, was valiantly trying to keep her eyes open but failing miserable. He could feel himself drifting off, eyes slowly easing shut. Somewhere, a branch cracked.

His eyes sprung open just in time to see a massive pincer crash into view. Chills ran down his spine as he slowly shifted into a crouch, desperate not to make any noise, and peered through the leaves of the bush.

A long, glistening black exoskeleton was visible carried atop six powerful branch-like legs, ending in a curved tip with a bulging sting bobbing at about head height. There were two of the heavy pincers, nearly brushing the ground as it lumbered past. Enjolras could make out several glittering eyes, but he couldn’t be sure how good the creature’s vision was.

He’d never seen a scorpion in real life, but he’d seen pictures. They weren’t supposed to be this monstrously huge. He shakily let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and put a hand over Helene’s mouth in an attempt to waken her as another of the creatures scuttled into view.

Helene’s eyes flew open and she flailed, but she must have seen the urgency in Enjolras’ eyes as he shook his head because she calmed almost instantly. He nodded towards the mutated beasts and she raised herself onto her elbows, her face swiftly losing all colour. She turned to rouse Gavroche, and Enjolras desperately began to try and think of a plan.

He reflexively caught the foot that lashed out at him as Gavroche was brought back to consciousness, shaking plant spores from where they were resting on his face.

 _Spores_ , Enjolras thought, cursing himself for not thinking of it before. Sleeping spores. Who knows what would have happened if Enjolras hadn’t stayed awake. _Focus, Enjolras. There are more pressing matters at hand._

Gavroche wasn’t as quick to catch on as Helene had been and one of his fists beat off the ground, right as Enjolras remembered something that he could have done with a good few minutes ago.

First, supplied by some random corner of his brain utterly uselessly, he remembered that the times he’d seen scorpions previously was in a book of Combeferre’s years and years ago. Second? They responded to vibrations in the ground to pinpoint the location of their prey.

He looked desperately at the two children - fuck, _children_ \- and out of the corner of his eye he saw the hideous muttations freeze.

“Run,” he hissed for the second time that morning. Gavroche finally stopped struggling long enough to shoot him a puzzled look that quickly morphed into one of horror; Helene’s was the same.

Enjolras saw the shadow just in time to dive out of the way, crashing out from his cover and mercifully landing in a fairly competent roll just as a pincer lunged into view, swiftly followed by one of the gargantuan stings.

“Run!” he roared, scrambling to his feet in time to see the kids sprint out of the bush then skitter to a halt with bitten off cries of terror.

There were more of them, cutting off any paths that may have led them further into the trees. Branches were too high and sparse in this part of the woods to climb, and as the three staggered backwards, still facing the beasts, it occurred to Enjolras just what was happening.

“They’re herding us back to the other tributes,” he said.

Gavroche spat out a curse and Helene bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet, ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

Suddenly another scorpion sprung from a thicket, knocking Gavroche to the ground with a clumsy swing of one claw. Luckily, it didn’t manage to grab ahold of him so he managed to roll out of the way of its sting. Enjolras lunged forward to drag him to safety while reaching behind him for his machete only to have his fingers close on thin air.

His pack! It must have slipped off while they were resting, taking all his meagre scrounged supplies with it.

“Enjolras!” Helene tossed him her scimitar, a long dagger already poised in her other hand.

He luckily caught the blade by its handle and thrust it clumsily towards the scorpion, only to have it glance off the thick exoskeleton. But that was enough to make the creature rear back and give Gavroche time to scramble away, pulled to his feet by Enjolras and yanked backwards.

Enjolras pushed the two kids behind him, holding the scimitar at the ready and thinking rapidly. There were six of the massive brutes now that the one who’d knocked Gavroche to the ground had joined the ranks, with who knows how many others nearby. Behind him Gavroche pulled two knives from his belt - one for each hand - and Helene steadied her footing, twirling her dagger nervously.

The exoskeletons would be impossible to pierce with their meagre weapons supply, and even then at least one of them would leave injured, and as they were Capitol muttations… Enjolras shuddered at the mere thought of what the venom secured within the stingers of the nightmarish things was capable of.

There was no training for this.

“Enjolras,” Helene hissed. “We have to go back.”

Enjolras inclined his head, never taking his eyes off the jewel-like shine of the mutts. “Keep your weapons drawn,” he replied in a low tone. “You know what we’re heading back into.”

He was met with grunts of approval, and as a scorpion darted towards them they turned as one and fled back in the direction they’d come from.

***

Grantaire’s fists were clenched, his knuckles white as his face. He’d risen to his feet without noticing and taken a step towards the screen that covered most of the wall. He barely felt the touch at his elbow.

“Come with me,” Valjean said, his face expressionless.

Grantaire swallowed nervously, but whatever fear he felt for what he was meant to do was completely overwhelmed by his fear for Enjolras’ safety.

So if his duties could play any part in helping him escape from that arena…

“Tell me,” Grantaire blurted out. “Tell me everything.”

Valjean nodded once, then turned and exited the room.

After a heartbeat, Grantaire followed him.

***

Enjolras burst into the clearing just as the sound of howling began to echo around from the other side. The scorpions were hideously fast and Enjolras had made Gavroche and Helene go ahead of him, so they were already standing stock still in the clearing, staring determinedly at the wall of trees opposite them.

He spun around, Helene’s machete raised high, ready to defend himself from the approaching mutts. But their job was done and they seemed ill inclined to chase them further, simply prowling around the edges of the forest in case their prey slipped back out to join them.

Even the mutts had their limits.

He was just turning back to the clearing as the careers broke through the other side.

“Behind me,” he growled, adjusting his grip on the blade’s handle. The kids opened their mouths to protest, but Enjolras strode in front of them.

“Oh, it’s pretty boy!” called the hulking tribute from the Cornucopia bloodbath. Enjolras’ scalp hurt just from looking at him. He prowled forwards, a predatory grin snarling across his face, pursuers already forgotten. “Hanging out with the ickle kiddies, are ya? Remember there are cameras everywhere, 12. Don’t want you getting some kind of reputation, do we?”

His cronies tittered, but their arrogance didn’t hide their fear as well as his did. They’d been chased by some kind of monstrous beasts and were now faced with the most infamous tribute in the arena, alongside a child with a worryingly high training score, and… Well, Gavroche was menacing in his own right; he snarled in response to what the brute was implying.

(Enjolras was very aware that he had spoken to the boy maybe five times in total and he was now in prime position to stick one of his many, wickedly sharp knives into his back.

But Helene trusted him. So Enjolras did too.)

Enjolras wondered distantly if Grantaire was watching right now. He hoped he wasn’t; this wasn’t going to be pretty.

“I think I’m going to _flay_ you,” said their leader, taking another step towards them. Everything he did was at a leisurely pace, like he was… Enjolras suppressed a shiver making its way down his spine; he was _enjoying_ this. And so were the other careers.

“I think I will!” he continued with a grin, a show of sick delight, and Enjolras blanched even as the other careers started egging him on. “I’ll see how much of your skin I can take off while you’re still alive. And then when you’re dead, my friends here can take turns wearing your pretty face. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, now who’s fairest of them all?”

“He’s insane,” Helene said, her voice faint.

The head career turned his predatory gaze on her, his grin widening to show his gums. “But first,” he said, still to Enjolras. “I’ll start on the girl.”

Gavroche’s hand started for a knife only to close on thin air.

Enjolras’ aim went wide, the blade of his stolen knife burying itself in the throat of a girl to the left of and behind the leader of the pack.

But it was enough.

“You’ll pay for that!” the tribute - something jarred Enjolras here; there was something wrong with calling him a tribute - roared as the girl fell to her knees, uselessly clutching at her neck, red spilling out between her fingers.

Enjolras felt a pang of remorse for his first kill.

Then the careers charged.

And the sky fell.

***

Grantaire was breathing hard. It was all he could do to keep up with Valjean. Jehan had disappeared a short while ago - he thought, anyway, but it could have been anything from ten seconds to twenty minutes ago. Sweat and tears stung the corners of his eyes, air caught in his throat, his lungs screamed under the pressure.

Still he ran.

Valjean cried out a warning and together they dived to the ground behind what looked like some kind of metal box on wheels. Bullets shattered the air above and around them as Grantaire swore and covered his head. His heart was pounding and he fought to keep down the bile that sought to rise through his throat.

Silence fell with a clatter and a yell and the two stayed on the ground only long enough to hear Jehan call out “I got ‘em”.

His voice was hoarse and he was breathing raggedly, blood dripping from a gash on his head. He himself was staggering to his feet, a group of Capitol guards lying unconscious on the ground, looking for all the world as though he’d just launched himself straight into them.

Come to think of it, he probably had.

“We’ve not got long, the alarm’s gone out, we have to do this _now._ ”

Jehan was holding his arm awkwardly over his chest, he must have hurt it in the fall. Maybe bruised a rib. Grantaire found it easier to think about that than what they were about to do. He had a feeling that once they’d done it, it was all he would be able to think about for whatever remained of his life.

He didn’t want to think about how Feuilly - it had to have been Feuilly, why else was Valjean not divulging his name? Who else would it have been? - sneaking onto the grounds. He didn’t know how he’d done it. He didn’t know for sure that he’d made it out alive.

But what did it matter? They were all probably going to die either way. A lot of people were.

There were so many people in these buildings.

The basement corridors were a literal maze. Grantaire didn’t know how they’d ever be able to find their way out again, never mind where they were supposed to be going. He could only hope that Jehan and Valjean knew what they were doing.

He could only hope for a lot of things.

They dodged bullets and ducked down corridors and broke into rooms and hid wherever they could and then they were finally there; their pained breathing the only sound that pierced the air… but not for long. If they didn’t act fast there would be more clattering boots and shouting and something more than a stealth alarm. And if they did…

Valjean was the first to do anything other than stare. He clenched his jaw and headed over to the cluster of barrels in the corner, running his hands lightly down the side of one. Jehan snapped out of his own reverie and herded Grantaire into the room, shutting the door behind them. Grantaire was drawn to the heavy metal drums even as every instinct in his body was screaming at him to get out of that room and _run._

There were similar barrels placed in the basements of several buildings citywide. Large buildings, crucial to the running of the Capitol. All of them with god only knows how many tonnes of explosives hidden in the key support bases of their structure. All with insurgents ready and waiting to start this final phase of the war, to draw as many soldiers as far away from the Capitol building as possible before stranding them.

Starting with the training tower.

It was late, so Grantaire was grasping at the glimmer of hope that the buildings would be emptied out for the night, for the most part, but the fact still stood.

The word was terrorism. And they all knew it.

Valjean swore and tapped something into the small device implanted on the far side of a barrel. Jehan watched him carefully.

“This is going to be close,” Valjean said through gritted teeth.

“We’re the first ones, Valjean. Everyone’s waiting for our signal,” Jehan’s confidence was shaken, maybe the reality of what they were about to was finally getting to him.

“I know,” Valjean keyed in one final series of numbers and turned to look at the two men by the door, making eye contact with both of them in turn. “You just need to know we might not make it out of here before it blows.”

Silence. Then,

“We understand.”

Grantaire heard his own voice as though it were detached from his body.

Valjean slammed the palm of his hand against the last key, and they fled the room like the hounds of hell were on their heels.

 

Minutes later there was a deep rumble heard for miles around as the Capitol training tower crumpled to the ground.

Across the city, final codes were keyed in. The Central Bank headquarters, office buildings, what looked like a block of apartments above a convenience store but actually hid an important base for the Capitol’s Secret Service… all rushed to meet the ground in plumes of smoke.

 

Unnoticed amidst the chaos, a small group of hovercraft rose into the sky above District 5 and slipped away, peeling off towards different destinations.

***


	2. Chapter 2

** HOPE TO DIES ** **, pt 1**

 

Montparnasse waited until the rebel hovercraft were safely out of view and well on their way before he turned and walked briskly down the corridor. The peacekeeper knew he didn’t have much time before either the missing hovercraft or the disabled security system were discovered.

The explosions in the Capitol had most of the keepers glued to television screens in the control room, but there was no guaranteeing that one of them wouldn’t come to their senses and start sending people back out to their duties. And people were counting on him to do this.

One of Felix Tholomyes’ (numerous) faults was that he was completely and utterly obsessed with control. Montparnasse had always been of the opinion that that was what was going to be his downfall one day.

And today might just be that day.

Because of this power-madness, every weapon in the Capitol was - in a genius feat of engineering - connected to a frequency operated via the electrical grid so that in an uprising Felix could pick and choose which weapons could and couldn’t work. Which naturally meant that, in the case of a full blown power outage, there would be a complete lockdown. All Capitol weaponry would be unusable.

Montparnasse had almost smiled to himself when he’d heard the plan. Almost. It was just so simple; making almost all of the soldiers in the Capitol all but useless in one electromagnetic pulse.

The only real problem was that, in activating the EMP device that had been smuggled into a disused hangar by members of this organisation, all communications would also cease, so that would make things more difficult for the rebel forces. Although, by then his job would be done and nobody would know he’d ever played any part in the rebellion seeing as all security footage would be wiped.

It was a win/win situation, really. And Montparnasse had never really been able to pass up on those.

Plus he’d never liked this government. Tholomyes - he refused to call him Felix, it made him that little bit happier to think that using his surname would bug that smarmy pig - had always pissed him off. Sure, he was a peacekeeper, but that’s because it was good pay and he liked the uniform. It wasn’t as though Montparnasse actually _liked_ authority; he just liked being _part_ of the authority.

He nodded to another peacekeeper as he passed them and quickened his pace as soon as they were out of sight. _Quickly_ , he thought, cursing himself for taking so long. The entire subterfuge thing would only work if nobody actually caught him in the act.

The huge metal doors opened with a stiff creak when he entered the code, then closed with a matching sound. Hardly anyone went in this hangar anymore; the keypad covered in dust just proved that fact. He slipped into the massive, empty space and crept into a corner behind a decommissioned aircraft that was so old it had actually started to rust.

There it was. A long, slim box with a conical attachment along one side. Funny to think that what was relatively such a small device could wreak so much havoc.

Montparnasse shrugged, turned a dial and punched in the code he’d been given, then waited to receive his signal to detonate. As if on cue, a blank piece of paper sluggishly churned out of a slim band around his wrist.

He pressed the big shiny red button - which, in reality, was disappointingly silver, like the rest of the buttons on the device - waited until the device started making a convincing enough whirring sound, then slipped back out of the room the same way he’d gone in.

Easy.

He wondered briefly about how many lives were going to be lost because he’d pushed that button. The Capitol would probably have some backup weapons, sure. And the rebels’ sheer numbers were bound to take out a sizeable chunk of the opposing forces.

It didn’t worry him too much.

He snuck back into the control room before anybody even noticed that he’d left. And before he had time to catch his breath, the power cut.

He smiled in the dark.

If he’d had friends, they probably would have told him that he was distressingly amoral.

True to character, he really wouldn’t have cared.

***

The light disappeared as though it had never even been there to begin with.

For a moment Enjolras thought he’d been blinded, a cry escaping his lips before he could help himself. Something rained down on him from above and he desperately covered his head with his arms, trying to locate the kids to protect them but to no avail. All around him were cries of uncertainty and fear; telling which noise belonged to who was no easy task.

At least nobody was running at them now.

Enjolras’ eyes slowly began to adjust as Gavroche grabbed his arm.

“The sun was fake, it’s night,” his shout was almost drowned out underneath the careers getting to terms with the darkness. Enjolras didn’t understand him at first, but then remembered what he’d said earlier. They had been underneath a false sky, with a sun that shone at night and a moon that presided over day, and it had been shattered into a million pieces.

Which could only mean one thing.

“We need to make it to the Cornucopia,” he hissed, backing away to the edge of the clearing. “They’re coming for us.”

Helene swung her head around, trying to get her bearings, and then plunged into the trees at breakneck speed. Enjolras swore none too quietly and sprinted after her, praying that Gavroche had noticed and would follow suit.

Branches and leaves whipped at his face and awkward foliage and debris littering the ground beneath the trees caused him to stumble and jar his ankle, but still he pressed on, barely able to see from what little light came from the distant stars. He heard the crash of the careers making their way in after them all too soon; the sky had fallen and yet they still weren’t shaken from their prey.

Movement in the corner of his eye told Enjolras what he’d wanted to know; Gavroche was with them. He blurred for a moment, dropping out of sight, then there was a shriek from behind them; a lucky throw in the dark. Gavroche was down to two knives now, and Enjolras prayed that they wouldn’t be needing either.

They could have been running for minutes or hours, there was no way of telling. The tree growth was too dense to keep any track of star location, there was an eerie lack of moonlight, and even if that wasn’t the case none of the three were going to risk looking up and stumbling on a fallen branch.

“Come on,” Enjolras gasped. “It can’t be much further. It can’t.”

He knew how desperate he must have sounded, but he couldn’t bring himself to care any more. There was no more acting, no more masks, just pure survival. He was going to survive this night and he was going to take these kids with him and there was nothing that was going to stop him.

They burst from the forest as a dark shape obscured the sky above the Cornucopia, the stars blinking out where it hovered. A fresh wave of adrenaline came over the three as their rescue was in plain sight, but there was still the matter of making it across the desert land with pursuers hot on their tail.

Enjolras bit his lip. They weren’t going all going to make it up the Cornucopia. Unless…

He tightened his grip on Helene’s scimitar and let Gavroche overtake him. The least he could do was buy them some time to scale the rock.

“Gavroche!” Helene cried suddenly, her voice weak from exertion. “Enjolras’ flare! You pocketed his flare! _Use it!_ ”

“Helene you _fucking genius_ ,” Gavroche hollered; the two had obviously been thinking along the same lines as Enjolras.

Enjolras had thought he’d lost the object along with his pack when they’d fled the tree earlier that day, but sure enough Gavroche produced it from his pocket and desperately tried to activate it while still running. They’d halved the distance between themselves and the rock now. Judging by the racket the careers were making they were gaining on them with every second that passed. There was no time to waste.

Suddenly the night erupted with red and Gavroche cried out, the harsh light bringing him nearly to tears. Above them the shadow turned about and dipped, heading towards them. Enjolras let out a hysterical whoop; they were going to make it!

And then Gavroche screamed and dropped to the ground.

“Gavroche!” Enjolras skidded to a halt, vaguely aware of Helene doing the same just ahead of him.

The flare had made him an easy target, and one of the tributes had had the sense to pull one of Gavroche’s own knives from their friend’s corpse for the sake of using on them. By the near-blinding light of the flare Enjolras could make out that it had cut deep into the back of his thigh.

Without a thought Enjolras sprinted back towards the boy, launching his scimitar into the air as he did so. It hit home with a disgusting squelch, and another career fell to the ground and went still. He scooped Gavroche into his arms, crying out as he jarred his shoulder, and began to run again, desperately trying both to make up for lost ground _and_ to not hurt the boy any further. He left the knife where it was for fear of doing him any more damage by removing it.

“Fucking _come on_ ,” Enjolras roared. Gavroche was sobbing from the pain, Helene sobbing from fear. Still they ran on, because their lives depended on it.

And then a figure dropped from the sky.

“ _Enjolras!_ ” Courfeyrac bellowed. He stood on a small plate of metal attached to the line of wire that dropped him from the hovercraft, one hand grasping the wire itself and the other urging them onwards. “Come on, you can do this- give me the boy, you stand on this, too, and hold onto me, Helene- climb on his front and _don’t let go_. Come on!”

They sprinted the final distance and did as they were instructed, Enjolras using all of his self control not to simply break down and weep into his friend’s neck.

“Pull up,” snarled Courfeyrac into a walkie-talkie by his shoulder. “No, Combeferre, just fucking _pull up_ , you can pull us _in_ when we’re _out of fucking range._ ”

Helene’s arms tightened around Enjolras’ neck, her heels digging painfully into his back. He barely even felt it. All he felt was being carried up and up and up, away from the outraged screams of their pursuers and the dangers of the arena. Eventually the wire itself began to wind in, and they were drawn into the soft light and warmth of the hovercraft itself.

When Enjolras got onto solid(ish) ground, managed to extract himself from Helene, and ensured that Gavroche was being looked after as best as they could manage in the air - Courfeyrac took over from Combeferre in flying the craft so that the one with medical training could look over the injury - he sank to his knees on the cold metal floor, and wept.

Because escaping from the arena was supposed to be the easy part.

They hadn’t even _begun._

***

 

**Day 9**

Enjolras was astounded by their progress.

They made it to what had become their hastily built, ramshackle camp without major incident; hidden in the shadows of a long-forgotten ruinous settlement on the skirts of the Capitol itself, it was one of many outposts scattered around the city at random intervals, hidden just out of sight of those who would raise the alarm. Courfeyrac did, however, manage to half-crash the hovercraft on landing, but they were close enough to the ground by then that only superficial damage occurred. (Superficial damage, and a lot of stony glares from his thoroughly shaken passengers.)

Gavroche’s condition was declared stable enough upon landing that they could move him to be treated somewhere that wasn’t swarming with the preparations of battle, and Enjolras urged Helene to go with him so that he wouldn’t come to surrounded by strangers - and, admittedly, so that she would be safe and out of the way. God help him, she would see no more battle until it was over.

Immediately after disembarking, two messengers flanked Combeferre and delivered rapidfire reports of what they’d missed while on their rescue mission: as expected, the explosions and power outage had thrown the city into chaos and the government had declared martial law, attempting to close the city down into more manageable segments with a platoon of troops dispatched to each to maintain order.

Also as expected, the hysterical citizens of the Capitol were making this nearly impossible.

What that meant was that the Capitol were so busy trying to find the insurgents in their own dark, panicked city that they simply wouldn’t have the inclination or the numbers to guard the perimeter with the intention of keeping anyone else _out_.

Enjolras listened to all this with half of his attention, the other half focussed on watching a constant stream of messengers darting in and out of the camp. With all forms of communication down, the only way of contacting the rest of their… revolution (he wouldn’t call them an army. He wouldn’t.) was to do it by word of mouth.

A slight figure entered the camp at high speed and shuddered to a halt beside Courfeyrac, out of breath but with eyes glittering with hope.

“We’ve done it,” they gasped, holding onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder to remain upright. “We have control of Six.”

As the cheer went up Enjolras noted the number stitched on their sleeve was not that of the district they reported on; their patch was a 4. He watched them looking around at the camp with wide eyes, chest heaving, and realised it was likely the first time they’d ever left their own district, a fresh pair of feet to carry the news when the original messenger from 6 was too exhausted to continue. He didn’t catch a single second of hesitation on the word ‘we’.

A spark of excitement zinged through his system then as he was reminded of what they were fighting for. This ‘we’, this freedom to run from place to place, to not be hemmed in by fences and guns and guards. To be one people, everywhere, and not live in fear.

He rose to his feet, body thrumming with energy and unaware that he’d ever been sitting, and turned to Combeferre’s messengers.

“Who else?” he asked.

“So far we’ve had reports from 4, 6 and 10,” one messenger reeled off.

Enjolras nodded; that made sense. The lower numbered districts were nearer by, but had higher populations and therefore higher numbers of peacekeepers and soldiers in their garrisons, whereas messengers from the higher numbered districts would take longer to arrive despite likely taking less time to win over control. He wondered briefly how 12 were fairing, then shook off the thought. One people, no districts. “Any indication of how far the power outage has spread?”

“Not as far as we’re aware, but it seems to have covered at least the outskirts of the city that we’ve managed to infiltrate,” one messenger scratched her head, stretching her calf in preparation for another foray. “Peacekeepers are still nervously clutching their guns because the citizens don’t realise they’re practically overpriced clubs now, so they still work as a deterrent and as far as keeping up the illusion of order and power goes, but there have been no shots fired since the system went down.”

“We can only hope,” Enjolras paused, trying to let no emotion filter through for his next question. “Any word from the insurgents themselves?”

The messenger glanced at Combeferre before answering. “We can only assume they’re lying low, they’re right in the middle of it and will have no way of getting any messages out. Although, we really don’t have any reason to assume anything’s gone wrong,” she added, much too quickly.

Enjolras bit his inner cheek to stop any reaction showing. “Right. So we press on and hope to collect them along the way.”

“Exactly, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going again,” she said, briskly striding away and disappearing amongst the dozens of others all clamouring to get things done.

‘ _Sir,_ ’ Enjolras mouthed, shaking his head. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder and he jerked it away from Combeferre, who raised his hands with a defiant look.

“Somebody has to see to that before you go anywhere,” Combeferre said evenly.

“I’ll go as soon as I-” Enjolras broke off with a yelp of intense pain and a string of curses as Combeferre set his shoulder without warning. “You- fucking-”

“You’re welcome,” Combeferre stepped out of harm’s way and raised his eyebrows. “You massive baby.”

“That fucking _hurt_ ,” Enjolras said, turning side-on so that his good arm faced Combeferre.

“It was bugging the _hell_ out of me to see onscreen,” Combeferre admitted.

There was a moment of silence before either of them spoke again.

“Are you alright?” Combeferre asked quietly.

Enjolras shuddered. “Ask me again when this is all over.” He glanced at his friend and let his shoulders slump, letting his guard down for the first time in what felt like years. “What was it like to watch?”

“Surreal,” Combeferre shook his head. “I’d rather not go through it again.”

“The commentators all really fancied you,” Courfeyrac pitched in, appearing from nowhere, as Courfeyrac was wont to do. “And I’m pretty sure most of the Capitol did too.”

“Well,” Enjolras said with a grimace, gingerly stretching his shoulder. “Let’s see what we can do about changing that, shall we?”

***

 

The night sky above the Capitol was blanketed by cloud, the moon and stars all but invisible due to the thick cover. Down below, the city was the darkest it had ever been, but people were everywhere.

The people of the Capitol were used to contentment. They were used to luxuries and pampering and feeling safe and secure.

They were not used to nigh on impenetrable darkness and sheer panic.

As time went on the darkness was pierced here and there by flame. First came the buildings that had tumbled, the ground shaking for miles as they crumbled in on themselves in the night, flames licking into the air and drawing terrified spectators and city officials alike.

Then came the amateur troublemakers, the Capitol citizens who had simply had enough. Lit by the fires that bloomed around the city like petals on a scorching flower, around the outer rings of the city and working their way in were crimes of opportunity of all kinds; looters and thieves and people just yearning to wreak some destruction were out in droves, facing adversity only from what little city guard could be mustered in each area post-blackout.

But in some places, the violence was not mindless, in some places crimes went unnoticed by the government officials trying to keep the peace. Because these criminals were organised and had everything planned down to a T.

They slipped in through unnoticed breakages in the boundary walls, aided by those of them already inside, passed through back alleys and gardens, navigated the crowds of hoodlums with ease.

When told by a stray guard that there was an emergency curfew being enforced, and to return to their homes, one of them couldn't help a muffled snicker.

Because her real home was District 8. And she was never going back.

The guard - soldier, peacekeeper, they were all the same - reeled around and raised his gun to her. "You heard me!" they snarled. "Return to your homes, or-"

All around her people stilled, bystanders and her companions alike. The street was eerily silent.

Then she laughed. "Or what?" she jeered, taking a step closer to the soldier, til the gun was levelled at her face. Their hands visibly shook, and she laughed again.

"What's the problem, officer? Go on, have at me. Scared, are we?"

A gasp went up from the crowd as the soldier squeezed the trigger to produce nothing but a muffled _click_ , then again when the girl yanked the gun out of their hands and brought the butt crashing down on their head in one swift movement, knocking them out before they could do so much as move.

 _Curious_ , she thought, in the split second of silence that followed. Many of the soldiers they'd encountered were without helmets. They must have mobilised with such haste that they hadn't all been able to don all the appropriate equipment. She wondered if that had been intentional. She would have to ask later.

The cry went up before the soldier even hit the ground.

"No firepower! They've no firepower!"

"Can't resist making a scene, can you?" said one of the girl's companions, cuffing her around the head reproachfully a heartbeat later. "Idiot."

She grinned at him. "Just checking we had the correct intel, buddy. Power down, guns out. Lucky, that."

Another girl approached and glared at her, but said nothing. She sighed.

"I won't do it again, Cosette. Don't worry. At least we know none of the pods in our path should activate.”

Cosette didn't look very convinced, but shrugged in an accepting manner anyway.

"Come on, you two. You wanted to be here, you better keep up," the man said before weaving away through the gathered civilians to join the rest of their group, moving with purpose.

"Yes, sir," the girl grinned, jogging to keep up.

"Eponine, what have I told you about calling me that?"

"Sorry, Bahorel. Would you prefer 'captain'? 'M'lord'? 'Your majesty,' perhaps?"

"I miss Marius. He could at least handle you two," Bahorel sighed.

The girls grinned mischievously at each other, a look of heavy meaning, then flinched as a loud _crash_ sounded over the mob.

As one, the insurgents melted away into the shadows, and kept on their way.

They had a job to do.

***

Across the city fighting was breaking out. In some places it was the planned, efficient and concise forays initiated by the insurgents as distractions, ways to draw out the soldiers. Test their opponents' morale and defences, sharp bursts of contained violence to assess the situation in preparation for what was to come.

Enjolras had a scarf over his head, masking the iconic golden curls that would have had his group spotted instantaneously by literally anyone who had watched the Games.

Which was precisely 100% of the city's  population.

He glanced at Combeferre, who he could barely make out in the murky night. As one, they stepped out of the alley and scanned the area; a large pedestrianised square with a high screen erected along a massive building at one side. Lamps and trees were strung with dead fairy lights, the ground was litter strewn and there were tables and chairs abandoned haphazardly here and there.

The square was empty but for a rat that guiltily skittered off when they approached. Enjolras turned. The group had slunk out behind them, silent as a breeze.

"Games Party," said Courfeyrac, nodding to the abandoned festivities. At Enjolras' cocked eyebrow he continued, nodding at the blank screen. "For people to watch the Games and... Make merry, essentially."

"Right," Enjolras said, making a note to get angry about that at a more appropriate time. "Now tell me why you and Combeferre keep taking turns to distract me every time you receive a report."

Courfeyrac started, eyes darting to Combeferre a little ways away, talking in a low voice with a runner. Sensing Courfeyrac's uneasy gaze, he turned, excused himself and returned to them.

"Enjolras," Combeferre started, but Enjolras cut him off.

"Tell me what's happened to him," Enjolras made an effort to try and keep his voice level, to loosen the clench of his hands, stop his nails from cutting into flesh. "It's Grantaire, isn't it? I deserve to know. You two, of all people, should realise that."

They shared a glance then moved as one, Courfeyrac steering them a little away from the bulk of their fighters, Combeferre angling himself to block Enjolras from view.

Enjolras told himself he wouldn't let it break him. He didn't know if he believed himself.

"You know the training tower was one of our targets," Combeferre said gently.

Enjolras nodded, a stiff movement. He heard his own voice as if from a recording, almost mechanical in its emotionlessness. "Valjean and Jehan's placement made it logical, as well as its symbolism as the hub of the Games."

"They couldn't do it on their own. We always hoped that we'd be able to get the other designer on side, way back, before we found out about... Before we knew Grantaire."

"I know that too," Enjolras interjected, mouth dry. He was in on these plans, he helped to create them, but that was a long time ago, and so much had happened that it felt much longer, and... Maybe he'd tried to forget.

"Enjolras, we haven't heard from any of them," Courfeyrac said gently, placing a steadying hand on Enjolras' arm. "They were the first to succeed with their target, as hoped, but we've heard nothing since."

A pause.

"So they're hiding out until it's safe to escape. Waiting for us to clear the area and extract them," Enjolras said forcefully, as though by speaking with enough certainty he could make it true.

He'd never felt so cold.

Courfeyrac surreptitiously took hold of Combeferre's hand, giving him a comforting squeeze as he responded, "Nobody was seen coming out the building as, or after, it collapsed. It was mayhem, but our runners... It took everyone down, Enjolras. I'm so sorry."

And this, Enjolras shook his head, this was a cruel trick. This was the cruelest of tricks, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac of all people should know better than to play it, and to do so now of all times.

No, they were wrong, they had to be wrong. The runners were incompetent, the information was compromised, everything had gone exactly to plan. Because in what kind of world would Enjolras have finally been given such a strong, beautiful glimmer of hope, slim but true, only to have it snatched away again?

He knew the answer, of course. This was the world he'd always known, so warped and abused by the Capitol that even luck and nature did its best to destroy each and every one of them so as to pay for the crimes they had suffered from so dearly.

He became aware that his friends had both been speaking to him in low voices that they no doubt hoped to be soothing.

"We'll make them pay, Enjolras," Combeferre said, and Enjolras felt a shiver of fear despite himself at the promise of threat from this, his closest and most level headed of friends and advisors.

"For Grantaire, and for every man besides they've taken before their time," Courfeyrac finished.

They watched their friend, worried, searching his face for any signs of him coming back to them, taking control once more.

"He is the last," Enjolras said, and his voice faltered. "He wasn't the first person they've taken from me, but he is the last. There is nothing more they can take but my own life, and either we win this, or I'm taking as many of them down with me as I can."

His voice carried to the rest of their team on this last sentence, growing more powerful as he spoke. There was a subdued cheer from those who didn't know the pure, calamitous pain that Enjolras' every fibre was clutched by. Those who heard nothing but their leader, ready to give everything he had left to bring the future back into their own hands.

Those who knew better feared for their friend, but said nothing. This feeling was conveyed through nothing but a slight clench of fingers.

Enjolras grasped his scarf between thumb and index finger and tugged, letting it slither to the ground. His hair shone like a ghostly halo in the faint moonlight as he, numb, led them forwards once more.

***

He groaned. He - who was he? Nothing but a pair of struggling lungs, heaving in dust, and a collection of bruises and likely breakages. He coughed. His mouth was dry, but more pressing was the agony the jolted through his chest as he did so. Something fine, like sand or dirt, trickled onto his face. He wasn't going to risk opening his eyes to check.

Besides, no light was filtering through his heavy eyelids. Where was he? Underground?

Underground...

A memory, sharp and painfully bright. A young woman, a tiny infant. " _You must take her,_ " she pleaded, desperation in her voice and madness in her eyes.

" _I can’t, I couldn’t, how would I smuggle her back to my home, I wouldn't know-_ "

" _You will learn. She doesn't deserve this. The others, they'll come to you when it's safe. They'll help you. Please, it's all I ask. I'm done for. It's blown. He knows, he's toying with me. He doesn't care about her, he plans to give her away or worse. It's a fashion here, they sell their kids. To fight, as tributes or as soldiers. Some of them just abandon them to the Districts, I don't know how. You must do this for me. For her._ "

Hesitant, he reached out a hand. With a squeal the child attached herself to his finger. The woman thrust the precious bundle at him, as though she was tearing apart her own soul in doing so.

" _I'm only here for a few hours more, you'll never see her again,_ " he warned, voice thick. " _The victory tour is ended, the interviews finished an hour ago._ "

" _They come for me in the morning. I would never see her again regardless,_ " her voice faltered. " _Take her to the train, there's... think you had a child by... during your training, when nobody... cover is already in place. Will not be questioned..."_

Something creaked ominously above him as his mind wandered from conscious thought, drifting in and out of the memory like an old radio out of range.

He stirred a little only to feel a sharp pain, but this time not physical. He remembered the girl, remembered her growing, remembered her first word - " _papa_ " -, remembered...

He remembered her being ripped from his arms. Stolen back to the Capitol. Remembered never seeing her again. Remembered the coverage of his "tragic loss," the nation's _sympathy_ as District 12's sole champion lost his bastard daughter to a new strain of some virus that was doing the rounds. Or whatever their fucking excuse was.

He never knew what happened to her next. That mother gave everything for her daughter only to have it come to nothing. Tears mixed with the dust on his face. He choked on a sob.

Another memory, an older one, faded, not as strong. Another who gave their life. Another... But not so noble. A purpose-bred tribute from a low numbered District. Taught all his life that the world was his right, the rules written specifically to benefit those who manipulated his every move... Only to realise, in the Games he'd been born to win, that the world was not what it seemed.

A flash of green in the dark. Leaves and branches whipping him as he ran. A heavy burden, an ache in his shoulder, the strain of his chest.

The boy was so young, felt so light as he carried him to safety. Tried to. The careers were never far, the boy was limp, there was so much blood...

Then he was there, and he tumbled to the ground, pulling the small form close to his chest to protect him.

" _Please,_ " he was not in his right mind as this great imposing figure towered over him, he could remember that much. " _Let him go. Let him - he will heal, take me instead._ "

The child cried out. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring all pain, blood from his head wound dripping sluggishly onto the cowering child he stood to protect.

That was the year they established the lower age restriction for the Games, he reflected. It seemed nobody had relished the events that unfolded.

And the man strode forward, a long, wicked knife in his hand... And paused. His hand shook, the deadly hand that had slain four tributes in the opening bloodbath alone.

" _He's only a boy,_ " he heard himself say. " _You can't think this is right. What lesson does this teach? Where is the glory in the slaughter of a child? What possible reasoning would make this right?_ "

The career came to a decision, and the world slowed to a haunted as he raised his arm, then struck down with the blade.

It stood quivering in the ground.

" _Go_ ," he said, and his voice was deep and shaken. " _Now._ "

The 'before I change my mind' went unsaid.

He fled.

 _Javert,_ the name of the tribute returned to him in a flash. There was another ominous groan above him. This time he did open his eyes.

Rubble. Decimated plaster, stone, wood. A very faint trickle of light, dust motes swirling in the wind.

The boy bled out slowly and painfully. He could only thank whatever deities he no longer believed in for sparing him a death from infection. He died in his sleep, in the end.

He never did learn his name.

And Javert, he learned later, was never the same after their encounter. He left the career pack, went from the public's favourite to an outsider, and on hearing only he and Valjean - his own name seemed almost incidental - remained at the very end, he took himself to a cliff face... and over the edge.

 _What was the point to all this? Everything leads to suffering in the end._ All he did was beg for the lives of others while others _gave_ their lives for the same end.

Suddenly a new noise rang out. A clatter, a thump. Was the structure coming down one last time? Was this his final moment?

A cough; not his, because no pain came with it. A rasping sound, a throat being cleared. Then, clear as a bell,

"Valjean? Val... Fuck. Grantaire?"

What was the point, after all? Perhaps if he could take on others' suffering, free them from it, it would have been worthwhile. All this would be looked back upon and made perfect sense of, one day.

Fuck it, fuck that, he wasn't going to let them win. He wasn't going to leave Jehan alone in this world of fallen towers.

He cleared his throat.

***

Courfeyrac watched as Combeferre gave a hard kick between the legs of a soldier who promptly fell to the ground in agony, and couldn’t help but feel somewhat proud.

“That was a cheap shot,” Courfeyrac chastised, grinning.

"All's fair in love and war," shouted Combeferre over the din.

"The fuck does that even mean?" Courfeyrac shot back with a laugh.

"To be honest, I've never really figured it out,” Combeferre said. “But I call bullshit. I'm in love, I'm at war, and literally nothing is fair."

Courfeyrac stopped what he was doing to stare at his partner for a good five seconds. “Really?” he said, voice rising several octaves. “ _That’s_ the first time you’re going to tell me you’re in love with me?”

“I tell you wh-” Combeferre broke off with a grunt as a soldier plowed into his back, and Courfeyrac knocked him out with the butt of his gun. “Thanks. I tell you what, if we get out of this mess alive and free, I’ll tell you I’m in love with you in front of the entire world and marry you to prove it. Would that make it up to you?”

“ _Did you really_ -” he threw a punch. “ _Just propose to me_ -” he ducked to avoid retaliation. “when I have blood _pouring down my face_?”

Combeferre grinned. “Now or never, love.”

He then proceeded to tackle the soldier who was doing their utmost best to tear Courfeyrac apart.

“I’ll still be wanting a ring, you know,” Courfeyrac said abesntly as he watched him work.

“I’ll look into that,” Combeferre replied.

***

**Day 10**

They advanced. As one, as _one_ , they and the citizens alike began to turn on the pockets of soldiers scattered through the city.

They had claimed three out of the five most important sectors of the city. Without their artillery, the soldiers were restricted to hand to hand combat, with any clubs, batons, - anything that was a weapon that didn't rely on the electrical grid - that they could get their hands on. They weren't trained for this. And their numbers weren't enough.

But Feuilly wasn't convinced everything was as simple as it looked. The remaining sectors to capture were the most densely populated, where the highest concentration of soldiers would be. That said, though, for all he knew the Districts had been liberated and were sending support even as he doubted their chances of success.

He wiped sweat from his brow and watched his men at work.

They had just taken down a small platoon, knocking as many unconscious as they could. Combeferre had emphasised - what felt now like years ago - that they were to inflict minimal casualties, but he hadn't seemed to have factored in the fact that the soldiers they faced had received no such instructions.

Feuilly felt he'd aged a decade in fighting. There was blood sprayed on his shirt, caked under his fingernails, seeping through a makeshift bandage hastily torn from a jacket that was tied around his middle where a soldier had sought to wedge a deadly looking knife beneath his ribcage.

Only the intervention of Bahorel, barrelling into the soldier from the side, had managed to change a fatal blow to a glancing one. He didn't think the soldier had lived long after that.

But he would have done the same for Bahorel. He'd recruited Bahorel when he himself was still a child and they had never left each other's side since their first errand. Their lives were one, if they'd believed in souls the word soulmate would have been appropriate. Feuilly couldn't think what it would be to live without the man.

He held that knife, the one that had sought to take his life, in his hand now. He stared at it, but didn't see it. He was thinking about the people they'd already lost. Wondering how many of their fallen enemies had families of their own.

His grip on the handle tightened as nausea swirled in his gut. But even then, he couldn't bring himself to doubt the necessity of their cause. They would kill no children. They would treat none as inferiors. There would be no more fear in living any more, should they succeed.

He wasn't naïve; none of this would occur overnight, he knew. Some things would take longer than others. There would be resistance. But there would be _change_ , and that alone was enough to will him back to his feet.

The night was cold, but he hardly felt it. Everything paled in comparison to the pain emanating from the gash under his ribs.

Were they going to succeed? Feuilly didn't have a fucking clue. Anything could happen.

Bahorel stepped to his side. His best friend's presence sent strength flowing back into his body, even when he told him that Eponine and Cosette were missing from their ranks.

They would fall in with another party, or form one of their own. Maybe even escape the city to one of their camps, where Marius was among the teams of medics and runners, doing all he could to help. That was what he had to believe.

"We move on," said Bahorel, even as Feuilly thought the very same.

***

 

**Day 11**

Morning was on the brink of dawning, grey and cold, when they encountered the largest squad of soldiers of the night, just streets away from the warren of the Capitol buildings.

These ones were armed to an extent; the old town fell under their control, and from it they had gleaned cruder weapons than they were accustomed to. Barely functioning rifles and blunt axes, one even held an evil looking scythe.

Enjolras' adrenaline was wearing thin, shock and exhaustion beginning to overwhelm him. His head swam with pain, his shoulder was the same if not worse. Soldiers seemed reluctant to wound him in case it proved fatal, he imagined that was the President's doing. Like some twisted game of capture the flag, and he was the object.

He snorted in derision even as he kicked out at a soldier's knee, a blow that connected with a cry of pain muffled by their helmet. He didn't wait to try and figure out whether or not he'd done any lasting damage, instead he jerked the baton out of the soldier's grip with one hand and yanked off his helmet with the other. A swift blow to the woman's head with her own baton rendered her unconscious, and he grunted with the effort.

Enjolras had started the night fighting with a semi-reliable pistol Courfeyrac had unearthed somewhere, but he had lost it at some unknown point. He readjusted his grip on the baton and lunged for the nearest soldier, grappling with Combeferre. He'd suffered some wound to his leg and one of his trouser legs was saturated with blood, but he fought on.

Together they made quick work of the second soldier. His gun jammed - they weren't used to fighting with such inefficient equipment, there'd been no reason to train outside of their networked arms. Neither of them checked to see if he was breathing.

Enjolras didn't know when they'd stopped doing that either.

At first they had been outnumbered but then another group had joined their own. Capitol rebels or insurgents? There was no way of telling, now.

One soldier broke ranks and retreated, and Enjolras hollered at the nearest ally to get after them. He took them down with a shot to the leg then discarded his smoking pistol - now empty - to go after the guy and put them out of their misery.

Combeferre stumbled, and Enjolras ran to prop him up. He muttered something about the sick leading the blind as Enjolras helped him to sit down on a slab of rubble. He made a mental note to work out who the hell had handgrenades, as well. That had been a nasty surprise for everyone.

Enjolras turned to survey the battlefield. The final soldiers were being mopped up, some of the rebels checking the fallen on both sides for signs of life. Soldiers still breathing were disarmed, disarmoured, and bound together. They would wait here until a squad of runners found them, then leave the soldiers in their care. They would then take them to a secure position in one of the areas of the city that had already cleared so they wouldn't be any more trouble.

A flash of movement had him stepping to the side as Courfeyrac spotted Combeferre and rushed over. Enjolras stepped away to stretch his legs and give them some space as Combeferre tried to reassure Courfeyrac that it was just a flesh wound, it looked worse than it was, not all of that blood was his. He just needed to treat it and he would be fine, honestly, Courfeyrac.

Enjolras felt a smile creeping across his face despite himself at his friend's concern. Courfeyrac had been head over heels over Combeferre since before they were even eligible for their first Reaping, and it still warmed his heart whenever he let it show.

Suddenly tears began to prick at his eyes, his smile began to waver. _Not now,_ he begged his heart. _Please_.

And then a strangled cry of " _ENJOLRAS!_ " sounded behind him.

Enjolras turned and his grin died on his face as he came face to face with a masked soldier, still very much mobile and dangerous.

Time froze, sound trickled out and he was left in a state of shock, unable to do anything but stare. He had no time to shout out to the others for help, no time to reach for another gun or pack of ammo, no time to do anything but raise his hands uselessly before a gun was being levelled at his head and its wielder was squeezing the trigger.

It was just as well, then, that that was the moment in which a solid block of movement launched itself from an alley, caterwauling at the soldier, knocking them off their feet and crashing straight into the wall of a nearby building.

The shot went wide, shattering a window further down the street, and Enjolras’ saviour - which, slowed down, was evidently human - put their fist through the visor of the soldier’s helmet with a sickening crunch that sounded not unlike a nose being broken. The soldier shuddered and went limp, more likely unconscious than dead, but Enjolras realised with a sinking feeling that he would feel much safer if it were the latter.

He stared as the person withdrew their hand from the helmet, an indistinct shadow amongst shadows, yet somehow achingly familiar. The numb shock released him from its grasp and the world returned to him with startling clarity; Combeferre’s calm commands for the person in the shadows to put his hands where he could see them and identify themselves, Courfeyrac’s shouts of poorly veiled panic, another's warning hiss for everyone to be quiet so their position wouldn’t be given away.

Enjolras raised his hand and the noise stopped. “It’s okay,” he said, fully aware of how shaky he sounded, but whether it was from fear or hope he no longer knew. He took a step towards the figure, staring at their hands as though they couldn’t believe they belonged to their body.

Even in the shadows, Enjolras could see marks of swirling ink on their skin, and that’s when he let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding on a single word.

“ _Grantaire._ ”

In that instant, light began to bleed into the morning sky through cracks in the cloud.

***

Feuilly and Bahorel's squadron, ranks now swollen with other rebel groups and stray Capitol citizens who'd decided to join the fight, caught up with them in an ancient park barely a mile from their final target.

Bahorel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savouring the scent of earth and greenery after hours of nothing but smoke and the coppery tang of blood. He knew this park: it was older than most of the city combined. It may have been hysteria and exhaustion talking, but he felt like the trees bowed protectively overhead, their branches pointing sharply outwards, warding off any intruders.

Call him crazy, it felt like nature was on their side.

When he opened them again, he saw a face he had thought was lost to him forever. They had received the same reports as the command squad, thought the insurgents in the tower were all dead.

And Jean Prouvaire was very much alive. Covered in dust and grazes and looking thoroughly dazed, sat on a tree stump in what had to be a temporary first aid post, but still breathing and looking around him warily.

He spotted Bahorel seconds later, and the recognition was instantaneous. He struggled to his feet as Bahorel took to his, pushing through allies and friends and all but running to the other man's side.

"You lucky bastard," he threw his arms around one of his oldest friends in a crushing embrace.

"You're alive, you - Grantaire said you were, but I didn't - you're here," Jehan wheezed into his shoulder, fingers pressing tight into the skin of Bahorel's arms.

"Grantaire," Bahorel said, pulling back. "Is - did he -"

"He's fine, thanks for asking," came a dry voice from near ground level. Bahorel whirled around.

Grantaire was lying on a thin mat laid on the grass, being prodded at by a man with glasses and messy dark hair. He looked, truth be told, like total shit. His hair was saturated with dust, his face covered in dirt and bruises, his clothes torn and muddied. The man was tweezing bits of what looked like shards of mirror out of one of his fists. Grantaire whimpered and another man with him squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Bahorel glanced at this other figure. He was very pretty, despite a series of fresh cuts across his face and his tangled hair, and looked weirdly familiar. And he was also glaring suspiciously at Bahorel, which he absently thought was kind of rude.

Clasping Jehan's shoulder and swaying slightly, he said, "You look awful, man."

The protective guy actively scowled at this, but Grantaire just laughed, sitting up. "Enjolras, don't, it's true. This is Bahorel. My kind of adopted father. Where's my other kind of adopted father? And the rest of the kids?"

"Feuilly's around," Bahorel said evasively. He wasn't going to mention Cosette and Eponine, they could deal with that later. When they were all more emotionally stable... If such a time ever came.

"Combeferre," came a new, out of breath voice, and the man seeing to Grantaire finished what he was doing before looking up.

"Joly," he said, standing up with a sense of urgency. "What are you -"

"Twelve is ours," he blurted out. "The peacekeepers have been detained, there's a small group still there keeping everything in line, but the rest of our force is on its way. And not just us, we were joined by other parties on the outskirts, they should be making their way..."

He stopped and took a deep breath, then sat down quite suddenly in the stunned silence that followed his words. "Sorry, ran all the way here. No runners were about, and I just… Just thought you should know.”

The people around them had quieted with Joly’s arrival, unashamedly watching and listening in. Now their eyes flicked to Combeferre, Enjolras, and a man who stepped to Combeferre’s side and tightly clutched his hand. To their leaders.

 _What comes next?_ , their gaze demanded. _What's our move?_

Jehan began to lean more heavily on Bahorel. He ushered him to sit down by Grantaire, sitting bolt upright and flexing his hand tentatively, grimacing at the stretch of his wounds. Bahorel caught sight of poor Hades, struggling weakly around the deepest of the cuts on Grantaire’s hand. There were injuries there that would have left its lattice irreparable in some places, places the tattoo would never move over again. Bahorel’s heart ached at the sight of those hands, the tools and most treasured work of such an incredible artist damaged in one fell swoop.

But he was alive. And that was better than the alternative.

Combeferre was speaking quietly to Joly. “...catch your breath, you'll be okay to take over here? I need to be with the others. I need to see this through.”

“Of course,” Joly said, a note of relief in his tone.

“We need to strike now before their systems come back online, or else we stand no chance,” Enjolras said. He had gotten to his feet, but still refused to move from Grantaire.

“How long does that give us?” said Bahorel. He didn't know why he was in this inner circle of command, but nobody else seemed to be questioning it. A movement in the corner of his eye had him struggling to keep Jehan from standing again. “No, you're not going. You can barely stand.”

“We honestly have no idea, and no way of knowing,” the man he didn't know said in a low voice, glancing to Combeferre. “They'll be putting all their effort into getting it up again. Their security systems, weapons, the bulk of their defenses and communication all rely on it. So we need to move out as soon as possible.”

“Me and Courfeyrac will organise everyone,” Enjolras said to Combeferre. “Go check on Valjean, see if he's conscious, make sure someone can monitor him if not. We won't leave without you.”

As Combeferre nodded and slipped away between two trees, a slight limp in his gait, Bahorel was suddenly struck by how young the three men in charge of this uprising really were. Sure, he had been younger when he was recruited, but their movement had had experience at its helm. Whereas now, their oldest remaining contributor was passed out somewhere, and they had all put their lives in the hands of three teenagers.

He watched Courfeyrac and Enjolras move between the assembled crowd, giving team leaders orders, organising groups, authorising further depletion of what little ammunition and armaments remained to them; he saw the respect in the eyes of all they addressed, the keen intelligence and determined expressions as they obeyed their orders and left the small clearing. Finally, he saw the adoration in Grantaire’s eyes that tracked Enjolras’ every movement, the constant glances exchanged that was Enjolras checking he was okay.

Bahorel didn't know Grantaire as a happy man. He guarded his heart, admired few, and trusted even fewer.

A sudden presence at his side alerted him to Feuilly’s arrival as he thought, _if anyone is going to lead us to victory and set us all free, it's going to be them._

***

 

Felix Tholomyes wasn't scared of anything.

As a child, he'd been the one everyone was scared of, the one who would hurt you if you didn't do what he wanted, would take your money and toys, make you cry. He'd ensured that this was a trend that carried on into his adulthood.

Now, though, as one by one his helmeted personal guard sprinted to him, barely keeping it together enough to say _the system is down, the people are panicking, we've lost all contact,_  and then _they're coming, they're at our gates, we're down to our last…_

Now, his fingers tightened on the barrel of his prized antique blunderbuss, his hands shook only slightly, and a single bead of sweat inched down his forehead as he began to issue commands through a clenched jaw.

This wasn’t just anything.

This was the beginning of the end.

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

** HOPE TO DIES ** **, pt 2**

**Day 11, cont.**

Eponine held her breath as if her life depended on it.

Because it did. She had inhaled so much smoke and ash and god only knew what else that every breath was a rattle, every other exhale a cough, and they couldn’t afford that right now. Fuck, could they not afford that right now.

Every miniscule noise echoed in the vast gloom; the constant drip of water somewhere to their right in the darkness made them jump every time it fell. She could feel Cosette watching her with concern, but she pretended not to notice. For whose sake, she wasn’t sure.

Suddenly there was a shout, and a beam of light swung towards them. They froze, temporarily blinded by the glare, but it was gone as soon as it came. Eponine waited a moment and then crept forward several feet more to peer at where the light had come from.

A thin slat in the wall. She grinned and motioned Cosette forward, nodding at the gap and breathing slowly, carefully, trying not to make a sound.

They’d made it.

***

The Capitol building was a menacing fortress of metal, glass and concrete. Usually it loomed above the street like a dormant volcano, protected by a multitude of motion sensors, sirens, lasers, nigh on impenetrable electrically fortified walls and doors, and a dozen armed guards on each side at the very least. Nobody got in or out without permission.

Or, forfeiting that, their lives.

But that was when the power was on. When the majority of the guards - soldiers - weren’t lured out, scattered and isolated, trapped in locations throughout the city or worse.

Grantaire’s head hurt. He watched his friends silently.

With no indication of whether or not the power had returned to the city, Enjolras eyed the machinegun turrets warily. As soon as the electricity tripped, the soldiers in the control centre would have been ordered to flip the switches for the perimeter defenses to be as sensitive as possible as soon as the power came back on.

He nodded, and at once Bahorel launched a sizeable lump of rock at the building. It landed hard on the concrete about three feet from the building then scraped along the ground to smack against the wall where it finally stopped. They flinched at the loud noise, then waited. Nothing.

“We were right, they’ll have pulled back. Be in the most central secure spot they can manage without being completely isolated,” Combeferre muttered.

“Control room,” Enjolras and Courfeyrac said as one.

Combeferre nodded.

They motioned to the others and moved swiftly to the wall. Grantaire waited back with the rest of the group, not failing to notice Enjolras’ anxious glances back at him.

 _Focus_ , Grantaire glared at him until he turned his head again. Somebody he didn’t know slapped a wad of something with wires coiling out of it into the seam of the door, struck something, and then they all retreated a safe distance.

Enjolras tugged him further out of the line of fire behind the low cement wall he was already crouched by. He grumbled, but didn’t complain. Enjolras didn’t even want him here, he knew that. He was injured, probably concussed, and frankly he was a burden, but he wasn’t going to leave Enjolras’ side. Hell or high water, he wasn’t leaving his side.

The explosion propelled shreds of rubble into the air, leaving everyone’s ears ringing. Enjolras cursed; impaired hearing was hardly ideal when they needed everyone to be on high alert, no matter how momentarily afflicted they may be.

There was a moment when they all just waited, letting their ears ring and the dust settle. Enjolras was watching Grantaire closely, and he couldn't help but wonder what it was he was looking for in his face. What he saw, returning the stare, was a shaken man whose beauty and courage seemed to grow stronger by the minute despite his own fear. A man who'd inspired hundreds to join the fight. Who had inspired him.

In the distance they could hear several more explosions, one after the other. Enjolras shook himself almost imperceptibly and raised a hand to gently pluck a stray chunk of something gritty out of Grantaire’s hair.

“Clear,” Bahorel called, and his voice rang low across the silence like the toll of bell.

A sudden flurry of footfall, boots scraping against concrete, glass crunching underfoot. A hand wrapped itself around Grantaire’s upper arm and held him back a heartbeat longer.

“Go back,” Enjolras’ eyes searched his and voice shook. “I can't protect you. _Please.”_

“I'm not leaving you again,” Grantaire said. He brushed his hand away, letting the touch linger. “I'm with you.”

Enjolras hesitated, then turned away, set his shoulders, and disappeared into the smoking wound in the side of the building.

Grantaire followed.

***

“Incoming!” yelled Feuilly, and everyone scattered for cover as a handgrenade soared towards them in a high loop. It blasted a hole in the nearest wall, shaking them nearly off their feet, and caved in half the ceiling.

He ran forward to use the wreckage as cover and fired a round into the smoke. Several voices cried out as he ducked down to reload, and Bahorel appeared to cover him from the side.

This place was truly a hellish warren of corridors and nasty surprises. Evidently Tholomyes had learned the hard way what would come from underestimating their forces, and had ordered as many non-power-dependant traps to be set as possible in the previous few days.

The floor had caved in on them three times already, rigged from below, and they'd lost a painful amount of men to it. They were treading more cautiously now, but time was of the essence and all Feuilly could hope was that the other groups were faring better than his.

Bahorel threw himself to the floor as something whizzed above his head. He glanced behind them and let out a sudden hysterical bark of laughter.

Feuilly turned his head and saw the source of the mirth: a butcher’s knife embedded blade-first in the wall, still quivering from impact.

“Your desperation is almost beautiful,” Bahorel crowed through the smoke.

Feuilly fired his next rounds trying not to let his own laughter throw off his aim.

***

The lower down and closer they got to the very core of the Capitol building, the fewer windows there were. They had less light to go by every corner they turned. Courfeyrac had brought flares to burn for this very purpose, but they were reluctant to set any of them off in case they alerted others to their position.

Enjolras had taken his group right when Feuilly chose left. They had fared slightly better, not that they knew it, but the lack of life loss did nothing to ease Enjolras’ agitation. They hadn't seen hind nor head of a soldier for at least an hour. They hadn't come across a single sign of life or death anywhere.

He couldn't for the life of him shake the nagging feeling that they should turn back and take another route, but there was no logic to it. They were just as blind going into this as any other group - no maps existed of the internal workings of the Capitol Building, and intentionally so - and there was no reason to believe that any alternative path would be any safer.

It also didn't help that neither Combeferre nor Grantaire were fit to be on this mission. Both of them knew it, yet nobody could get them to go back to camp, though he and Courfeyrac had tried. And they didn't have the luxury to spend time arguing about it; if they got the power working again, the whole building would become a deathtrap.

So they went on.

Someone cursed as their boot struck against something on the ground and made a loud clanging sound. It rattled away and Enjolras squinted to try and make it out in the gloom. It appeared to be nothing but a tin can of some kind. Probably dropped by a soldier when the power cut.

There was another scuffling sound, and Enjolras paused, opening his mouth to berate whoever was jeopardising their situation. Then he realised.

The noise was coming from the opposite direction.

He signalled frantically for the others to stop. Courfeyrac took up a defensive position to his left, a young woman whose name he didn't know did the same to his right.

A rasping sound. The voice at the back of Enjolras’ mind was screaming at them to get out, to hide and find something stronger than a flare to light their way before coming back. _Turn and run_ , it was saying. His skin crawled.

The air was humid and thick, stale to breathe in and worse to open your mouth to. Enjolras edged forward, straining his eyes for any signs of something about to go horribly wrong.

Unable to take the debilitating dark any longer, Courfeyrac lit his flare.

The _hiss_ it emitted completely covered the movement of the mutt.

It was some grotesque hybrid of bear, wolf and tiger, broadheaded and aggressive and powerful, and on all fours its head came up to Enjolras’ chin. The red light of the flare made it look even more of a gruesome caricature than the beast was. Enjolras only just managed to stumble far enough back for its jaws to miss his throat and sink their teeth into his shirt front instead.

He cried out in fear and put as much power as he could into a downwards strike with the butt of his gun, impacting the mutt’s skull with a resounding _thud_ that seemingly did nothing but aggravate it further. The fur was too thick on its back to allow much damage.

There were more of them coming. Enjolras could hear the thudding of their paws even as he desperately fought to avoid the wicked curved claws of the one whose clutches he was trapped in.

The others were shouting; in the flickering light of the flare there was too much confusion, too many dancing shadows to make out what was what. Nobody dared fire at the beast in case they hit Enjolras.

It disentangled its teeth from his shirt and sprang a step backwards, and Enjolras saw his opportunity. As the mutt launched itself at where his neck had been half a heartbeat before, Enjolras dropped to the ground and twisted onto his back. Winded, he fired his remaining shots into the mutt’s unguarded belly as it leapt, sending it crashing to the ground with a haunting, shrill cry.

Courfeyrac lunged for him and pulled him to his feet as a rebel sunk a knife into the beast to put it out of its misery. Enjolras, gasping to try and reclaim his lungs, felt almost sorry for the mutt. Bred for death and violence, and death and violence alone, it was like a Career without the - albeit, limited - freedom that being human brought. It didn't choose this.

The snarling and footfalls of the other mutts were almost on them, and they did the only thing they could afford to do.

They ran back the way they'd come. Courfeyrac threw his flare to the end of the corridor in an attempt to buy them more time, and they desperately tried to navigate back the same way they'd gotten in. People knocked into walls and stumbled and fell and were helped up again, and all the while the beasts got closer and closer.

None of them even realised that in the confusion half of their group had disappeared down a different hallway entirely.

***

Elsewhere in the building, a grate was lifted, a lock forced, and two figures slunk out of a sewage shaft and into the shadows to begin their ascent.

***

“Enjolras, you're not helping anyone like this,” Courfeyrac said, grabbing hold of his shoulders. Enjolras bared his teeth at him in the darkness.

They'd managed to force their way into a sizeable maintenance cupboard, the half of their group that remained barely managing to squeeze in before the mutts thundered past. Now Courfeyrac was excruciatingly aware that everyone else was hearing every word that passed between the two of them.

“He said he wasn't going to leave again- I should have made him go, I should have-”

“ _Enjolras._ Combeferre is with him. They're with the others. They will be fine,” Courfeyrac prayed that his voice would stay level. He wasn't sure whether he was trying to convince himself or Enjolras.   

He felt awful for thinking it, but at least Combeferre only had a leg injury. Only movement would be impeded. Grantaire though… A concussion on top of everything that came with a building collapsing on him wasn't promising, Combeferre had confided in him as they left. But he could hardly refuse to allow Grantaire along while going himself, could he?

Courfeyrac was wishing that they had both stayed now.

They stayed in their hiding spot for as long as they could stand. Creeping back into the hallway as silently as possible, Enjolras fell silent. For once, Courfeyrac couldn't tell what was going on in his mind. And that terrified him.

There was little speech as they continued on their way again, travelling the same length of corridor they'd already walked twice in the last hour. It was unanimously decided that they should continue on the path they had initially intended rather than try to figure out which side corridor the others had slipped down. Time was too precious to risk it.

Enjolras didn't contribute, just shouldered his gun and stared forwards into the darkness.

They surfaced back into the light again as suddenly as they'd been plunged into darkness. The winding corridor opened into a vast hall, high ceilings of glass allowing in sunlight that pained their eyes after so many hours in darkness.

When his vision cleared, Enjolras froze in horror at what awaited them.

“Well, if it isn't the pretty boy.”

Grinning directly at him, tenderly running his fingers along the flat of a wickedly curved blade, was the head career, dressed neck to toe in Capitol gear. Flanking him were his cronies from the arena alongside a handful of helmeted Capitol soldiers.

“How-” Enjolras choked, his mind racing. They had been miles away, there was no way out of the arena, how had they escaped? How were they here, now, in the heart of the Capitol building? _Why?_

“Let’s just say,” he was taking his time, enjoying Enjolras’ confusion. He took a slow step forward, then another, one of his friends flipped a knife from hand to hand. “A certain president of ours promised us some high quality shit in life if we brought him your pretty little head. And who were we to say no to such a generous offer?”

Enjolras sensed the unease from his group. Many of them hadn't watched the Games and didn't recognise the tributes and didn't trust them; those who had were even warier. Enjolras himself could hardly breathe, his head beginning to swim. How could they face another fresh batch of soldiers and come out on top? Most of them were injured, all exhausted, barely any had a weapons advantage and even less had any form of armor.

But all of them were willing to die here.

Courfeyrac adjusted his grip on his rifle, one of few that remained in their hands.

Enjolras straightened, one last flood of adrenaline coursing sluggishly through his veins. “And what if, instead, I bring him your head?”

“It's not such a pretty head,” jeered Courfeyrac, uncharacteristically cruel. A halfhearted rumble of laughter rippled through their group.

“Who asked you?” the career snapped, the others bristling and spitting out insults of their own.

“He may not thank me for it, true,” Enjolras pretended to ignore them. Determined to enjoy one last laugh.

“Then I suppose we'll just have to have our dear President’s head on a plate too. It doesn't do to be ungrateful.” Enjolras had never seen Courfeyrac so enraged.

And likely never would again.

These were the elite careers. The ones who fought and trained their entire lives for a shot at the Games. The ones who volunteered as tributes, the Capitol’s favourites.

Enjolras’ last thought before they snapped and charged was that he hoped Combeferre, Feuilly, Bahorel and Grantaire - most of all, Grantaire - would manage to get out alive.

***

“Enough,” the order echoed over the sound of fighting. Blood stung Enjolras’ eyes as he went to swing one last blow at the head of the career he was fighting, missing and crashing to the ground on one knee.

“Enjolras, you too,” the voice made his skin crawl even through the fog of battle. He struggled to raise his head to search for the source, his eyes lingering on the bodies littering the ground... Tributes, soldiers, his own friends… Bile rose in his stomach as he finally succeeded.

Between the grand doors at the other end of the room, flung open seconds ago, President Felix Tholomyes stood with his finger lazily toying with the trigger of a rifle, and the barrel pressed to the back of a man’s head.

Enjolras felt all the blood left in his head draining from his face. _No, not this, anything but this._

‘I'm sorry,’ Grantaire mouthed at him, from what couldn't have been more than ten feet away but felt more like miles.

Courfeyrac’s pained gasp confirmed both that he had made it through the battle, and that the slumped figure beside Grantaire was Combeferre.

Enjolras shook his head, dazed. _It's not your fault,_ he wanted to say. _I shouldn't have let you come. I should never have brought you into this mess. You should never have been more than just my stylist_ , he should have said. _I'm sorry._

“Take them,” Tholomyes commanded. The last of the soldiers seized Courfeyrac and what little remained - two? Three? Enjolras couldn't tear his gaze from Grantaire to check - of their group. The lead career - still standing despite their best efforts - grabbed a fistful of Enjolras’ hair, matted with blood, and yanked him forward onto both knees with a grin.

Enjolras was distantly aware that Courfeyrac was forced down beside him, that there were two helmeted soldiers flanking Tholomyes and a handful of other Capitol citizens cowering behind him.

“Tell me, how does it feel to be so close to winning and yet lose it all anyway?” Tholomyes’ lips twitched, the bottom flecked with spittle. He was completely losing it, Enjolras realised distantly. He had finally cracked.

“Shit, no,” Enjolras managed to shoot Grantaire a warning glare despite his condition, but he carried on. “Are you- are you honestly monologuing right now?” Tholomyes drove the butt of his rifle between Grantaire’s shoulderblades before he could get any further, and he fell to the floor, palms smacking the tile, a wet cough wracking his lungs.

Enjolras cried out and struggled against the careers’ hold. One of the soldiers stepped forward but Tholomyes raised his hand and they stopped. Silently, the other moved towards them as well. They held rifles much like Tholomyes’, and raised them to the group as an unnecessary show of force.

“Let him go,” Enjolras shouted, fully aware of the hoarse desperation in his voice. Beside him, Courfeyrac whimpered.

“You know what, I don't think I will,” Tholomyes bared his teeth in what might once have been a smile. “I might give him to your friend there for a while, maybe let the mutts at him before the rest of your little army get here.”

Enjolras’ chest ached. Grantaire tried to smile reassuringly, but his teeth were stained with blood.

One of the Capitol citizens, cloaked in robes of purple and yellow, approached Tholomyes. “If I may, sir,” he said in a thin, reedy voice. “In the likelihood of our capture, might I suggest we keep them prisoner and exchange them for our own lives?”

“Monsieur Thenardier,” Tholomyes turned and began to respond, anger plain on his face.

And then a soldier started laughing, high and feminine. Silence fell like a switch being flicked.

And then they raised their gun, the soldier on Tholomyes’ other side mirroring their actions, and shot down the tributes and other soldiers who held the rebels, faster than they could reach for their own guns, then turned their guns on those they were protecting moments before.

Tholomyes’ jaw went slack. Thenardier looked like he'd soiled his garish clothes, as did the woman behind him who had dropped to the floor. Enjolras itched to move to Grantaire but Tholomyes still had his gun to his head, and Courfeyrac had slumped against his side.

He didn't know the girl who threw her helmet to the ground with a loud clatter before turning the gun back to Tholomyes, but her face was painfully familiar.

“That's all you do, isn't it? Trade people to suit yourselves, playing with lives as though we’re all just dolls? I wouldn't allow your life spared if mine depended on it,” she said, face smeared with dirt.

“Eponine,” the woman gasped, voice strangled. On the ground, Grantaire started laughing hysterically despite the barrel of the gun still pressed to his head.

“Mother,” she spat back. “Did you even recognise your son when he appeared in your precious Games? Or did you forget he existed as soon as you abandoned him in your District and began to claw your way into power?”

“Gavroche,” Enjolras spoke on an intake of breath. The resemblance was striking, down to the look of determined hatred. Courfeyrac, the only one close enough to hear, was trembling, unresponsive.

“What a charming family reunion,” Tholomyes said with a disarmingly high pitched bark of laughter.

Eponine’s eyes darted to his, and she gave a slow, wolfish grin. “You're going to regret saying that.”

The other helmet hit the ground just as she finished speaking, and Tholomyes’ hands shook as he saw the other soldier’s face. Her rifle was levelled at his head, and her eyes held so much hatred that Enjolras could feel it as he would if she were a flame and the hate was burning heat.

“Fantine?” Tholomyes croaked, looking like he'd seen a ghost.

“Her name’s Cosette,” Eponine said. “You should know, you named her. You also ordered her tongue cut out. And she wants me to tell you that this is for her mother.”

The explosion of sound had everyone shrinking to the ground, and Enjolras watched as Cosette’s shot sunk into Tholomyes’ chest as though in slow motion. Red bloomed from the entry point and his rifle slipped from his hand as he began to fall.

Everything else happened so fast.

Courfeyrac scrambled to Combeferre’s side before the body hit the ground.

Eponine kicked the dead man’s rifle behind her and kept her rifle trained on her parents, whose eyes were locked in their fallen president.

Enjolras got to his feet, ears ringing. He kept replaying the shot in his head. Wasn't he supposed to kill the president? Did it really matter as long as it happened? Didn’t Cosette deserve that privilege more than he did?

And why was he thinking about this when Grantaire was sobbing on the ground before him?

He took the few shaky steps that felt like miles, dropped to the ground and wrapped his arms around the man.

“It's over,” he whispered. “We made it.”

“Not yet,” Grantaire said.

“Close enough,” Enjolras let a shuddering laugh escape as Grantaire returned his embrace.

They still had some of the city to take, but when word spread that the Capitol building had been taken and the president killed, the hope was that everyone would lay down their arms easily enough. When the electricity came back, they would be able to disable the defences from the control room. The rest of their force, the combined might of the districts’ fighters and all the Capitol citizens who had joined them, would be able to clear the city of any remaining resistance.

Courfeyrac managed to stir Combeferre, desperate tears streaming down his face as the stunned man blinked blearily in the sunlight that streamed into the room.

Feuilly and Bahorel stumbled through the door with a triumphant yell, three others trailing behind them, then froze when they saw the scene in front of them.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been,” said Bahorel, voice flooding with relief and going at once to Cosette’s side. The girl had fallen to her knees and was staring at the body of her biological father as though she was looking right through it.

“Sewers,” Eponine said vaguely in response. Feuilly limped to her side and clapped her on the shoulder, a silent ‘well done’, and stood guard over her parents with her.

“What I miss?” Combeferre asked, groggy. “D’we win?”

“I think so,” replied Enjolras with a bloody smile.

“Oh, good,” Combeferre said. “I need to sit down.”

“Don't we all?” Grantaire muttered into Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras watched, fascinated, as the dull and darkened tattoo of a vine on his neck began to bloom for the first time in days.

“God, yes.”

*******

**  
**

****

** SILVER CLOUDS **

**Day 20**

What Grantaire found hardest to process was the fact that less than a month had passed since this whole ordeal had started.

Well, for him, anyway. Jehan and Bahorel were able to hang up their boots after ten long years, Feuilly even longer, and Valjean… The look on his face when Bahorel admitted that they had been keeping something from him, then stepped aside to usher Cosette back to the one true father she’d ever had, spoke fathoms about just how long Valjean had been waiting for the end of this journey he’d unwillingly started on decades ago.

They still weren’t finished, but as Enjolras had said: close enough.

“So.”

Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras lounging in the doorway, an easy smile on his face. He grinned and extended a hand.

“So?” he repeated as Enjolras padded across the carpet to him. He’d kicked off his boots a few hours after they’d cleared the building - barely a week ago, now - and had been wandering around barefoot ever since.

Enjolras, Grantaire was finding, when not stressed and on the verge of impending disaster and possibly imminent death, was not unlike a large domestic cat. This image was cemented further when he dropped to the floor beside him and curled up against Grantaire’s side, nuzzling into his neck.

“What’cha doin’?” he mumbled into the join of his neck and shoulder, raising his eyebrows at the box Grantaire was digging around in.

Grantaire pulled out a small wired net and an instrument that looked curiously like a gun and Enjolras moved to lean against his shoulder. He frowned. “What is that?”

“My gear from the shop,” Grantaire smiled, but his gaze was distant. Enjolras had interrupted him in a haze of disoriented disbelief. He couldn’t believe it had been less than a month since he’d last held the gun in his hand, last implemented a lattice. So little time had passed and yet the entire world had been flipped on its head. So little time, and yet it felt like years.

He snapped his attention back to the man nestled into his side, dropping the gun to wrap an arm around him. “Bahorel managed to save my equipment before they fled the shop, had it hidden away safe just in case we won. He went this morning and fetched it for me because _somebody_ ,” he elbowed Enjolras in the ribs, “won’t let me out of his sight anymore.”

Enjolras shrugged unapologetically. “Do you really blame me?”

Grantaire didn’t.

Enjolras took the net from him and ran his fingers over it in silence for some moments. Suddenly he turned a brilliant smile on Grantaire, an expression so bright that Grantaire's heart ached at the sight of it.

"Do you remember that promise you made me in training?" he asked, draping the net over the edge of the box to take Grantaire's hands in his own.

"I do," Grantaire said after a moment, hesitant. "But it's a big thing, Enjolras, are you sure-?"

"Positive. I know what I want, and where I want it. All I need now is you," Enjolras leaned against him, then frowned when he realised how uncertain Grantaire looked. "What is it?"

"It's just..." Grantaire struggled to find the words. "You already know it's a very permanent thing, but... What if you grow to hate it? Or if years down the line we're... You and I, we're not..."

"Grantaire," Enjolras waited until he looked at him before he continued. "Believe me when I say that isn't going to happen. Regarding the former, you're an incredible artist - don't try and deny it, I've been speaking to Bahorel. And as for the latter," he shook his head with a wry smile. "Just ask Combeferre what I was like when you and Jehan and Valjean didn't report back. I was overwhelmingly lost without you, Grantaire. I love you. I'm completely and utterly gone over you, and that's not going to change any time soon. This, for me, this is forever. And, god forbid something happen, if I have a lattice, I have something of you forever too."

His voice grew softer yet somehow more passionate as he spoke, and in the end Grantaire couldn't do anything but stare at him in awe, hands clasped so tight together it was almost as though they were one and the same.

"I love you," Grantaire whispered. He shook his head in disbelief, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Fuck, I love you. Okay. This is going to hurt. A lot, depending on what you want and where," Grantaire paused, realising what he'd forgotten to ask before. "What do you want?"

Enjolras smiled, leaning forward to kiss him. "First of all, that," he said. "As for the tattoo, you don't happen to still have your sketches from training week, do you? There was one doodle in the margins..."

As it so happened, he did. Not intentionally per se; he'd all but forgotten about them, but they were in the box too. That particular sketchbook had somehow been transferred into Bahorel’s care some time between the opening ceremony and the collapse of the training centre, an act that Grantaire suspected Jehan of having carried out but had yet to inquire about.

When Grantaire had retrieved them and Enjolras indicated the correct one, he asked again about placement.

"Same as Hades, except," Enjolras stretched out his right hand, wiggling his fingers invitingly. "This hand."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, surprised. "The whole hand? That'll lay you out for a while. And hurt like a bitch."

Enjolras couldn't resist a smirk. "What do I need it for? The battle's been won, Grantaire. And I'm no stranger to pain."

Grantaire dipped his hand back into the box. "Now?" he asked, a thrill of anticipation at getting to do what he loved and implant a lattice again after so long battling with his apprehension over tattooing Enjolras.

"Now," Enjolras confirmed with a nod. Grantaire began to set up, Enjolras interrupting him with a kiss every so often to calm his nerves.

"Are you sure?" he asked, one last time.

"About you?" teased Enjolras. "Always."

***

Long, somewhat tedious hours later - a time span not helped by Enjolras' newfound habit of using physical affection as a form of painkiller, which did absolutely nothing for Grantaire's concentration - the process was complete.

"It's incredible," Enjolras breathed, reflexively flexing his hand with a wince.

 _Incredible._ Grantaire couldn't help but remember the exact same reaction on their first meeting what felt like years ago.

Gently, he took Enjolras by the hand and tenderly kissed him on the knuckles. Together, they watched as Enjolras' new adornment groggily came to life and sluggishly began to move around.

It moved in stark contrast to Hades on Grantaire's left hand; he'd had to configure a whole new algorithm just to get the movement satisfactory. Where Hades slithered, this hovered; where it rolled, this swooped.

Grantaire realised he was smiling. He looked up to see Enjolras was watching him with an expression of pure, undiluted adoration.

"Has it got a name?" Grantaire asked, voice quiet.

"I was thinking about it," Enjolras linked their fingers together. "Osiris seems as good a name as any."

"Dork," Grantaire muttered, and cracked a grin when Enjolras shoved him playfully.

Together, they watched as its movements gained confidence. Grantaire would have to bandage it up soon to prevent infection, but for now they just watched.

Elsewhere in the building was revelry and celebration, but here in the bunker was nothing but tranquil contentment.

It was only broken when a delighted gasp escaped Enjolras' lips as the phoenix crouched on the pad of skin between his thumb and index finger spread its wings and set alight for the first time.

 _A phoenix for the phoenix,_ Grantaire thought, eyes trained on Enjolras, mesmerized.

He had risen, they all had.

They'd set the world ablaze and taken it back from the ashes, as was their right.

The battle was won.

_They had risen._

***

 

**  
**

****

** WITH GRAY LININGS **

**_Epilogue_ **

 

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit._

Combeferre read the document three times through in quick succession. Took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and read it again.

There was no mistaking what he was reading.

He scanned the rest of the papers in the file, skimmed through the rest of the files in the top drawer of the cabinet, looked around him at all the cabinets he had yet to prise open, and bit down on a cry of despair that threatened to tear itself from his lungs.

It had been a week before he’d managed to escape the still-ongoing celebrations and began to explore the furthest reaches of the building in which they’d made their temporary residence, making a note of everything he came across - armaments, supplies, suspicious and/or unknown technology to be thoroughly inspected at a later date - and another two weeks later he still wasn’t finished. It was only by stumbling upon the original blueprints for the building crushed in a secret compartment in a security officer’s desk that Combeferre even had a frame of reference for just how many hidden rooms and secret passageways there were, and he’d barely made a dent in them.

But what he’d found stopped him in his tracks.

He got to his feet, now heavy with exhaustion, and left the room, being careful to lock the door behind him so that nobody else would stumble upon its contents. He began to wind his way through the labyrinth of corridors in the Capitol building from the secret storage rooms and offices to the bunkers where he’d last seen Enjolras; taking a more convoluted route than necessary, he sought to avoid all of the celebrations rocketing around the interior of the building, not wanting to get sidetracked or asked what was wrong in response to the sheer defeat etched plain on his face.

Enjolras was exactly where he expected to find him, sitting on the edge of one of their makeshift beds - more a cot than anything, really - in the bunker, laughing at something Grantaire had said as he tenderly rewrapped the bandaging around Enjolras’ right hand. It was Grantaire who saw him first, and his smile quickly vanished into an expression of fear when he saw the look on his face.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras twisted to look at him then stood up, alarmed. Grantaire joined him. “What is it?”

Combeferre swallowed against the bile rising from his stomach and wordlessly held out the sheet of paper, incapable of formulating the words. Enjolras snatched it from his hands and after taking a moment to adjust to the code in which it was written (a code cracked as a combined effort by Bossuet and Courfeyrac merely two days ago) he scanned the page with ruthless efficiency, eyes racing to take in the information, Grantaire looking between the two of them with growing uncertainty in his eyes.

The uneasy silence was broken when the sheet crumpled, Enjolras’ fingers going white knuckled, his eyes near burning a hole through the paper before he turned to look at Combeferre.

“You double checked.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Combeferre nodded in affirmation regardless.

“There’s no way it isn’t true,” he confirmed, voice quiet but firm.

Enjolras sat down heavily on the cot, his face slowly losing all its colour and his expression morphing into one of barely contained fury.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire crouched in front of him, taking his hands. Enjolras gripped his fiercely in return and raised his eyes to meet Grantaire’s. What Grantaire saw in them made his blood run cold.

“Tell me,” he said to Combeferre, not taking his eyes from Enjolras’ for a second.

There was a moment of silence before Grantaire saw the file drop into the periphery of his vision, then Combeferre joined it, sitting beside Enjolras and putting his head in his hands.

“There are more,” Combeferre said. “We weren’t the only ones, we’ve been lied to - of course we’ve been lied to, look who we were dealing with...”

“More?” asked Grantaire, dread slowly creeping into his gut. “More what?”

“More people. More countries. More Districts. More Capitols,” Enjolras’ voice was barely above a whisper.

Grantaire’s vision blurred as he spoke, the edges of his sight bled black, knowing what he was going to say before his mouth even formed the words.

 

“More Games.”

  


**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the story ends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Val for your patience and editing and moral support. Also thanks to Summer and Maura for essentially yelling at me until I wrote more. Always appreciated, guys. I mean it.
> 
> I am so sorry this took over a year to get together. I hope the standard of this hasn’t fallen too much in light of this, if there were any discrepancies you picked out or weird changes in style, remember this took over a year to write and I AM SORRY. I did my best to complete the story to a satisfactory level, but in the end what really matters is that you get to know what happened next. I couldn’t leave it unfinished. Some of the events are scrambled and appear in a nonlinear fashion, so sorry if there’s any confusion. I hope it becomes clear as the story progresses. If not fire any questions you have my way either here or on my [tumblr](http://cityelf.tumblr.com). ALSO tell me if you spot any mistakes so I can fix them, I've corrected all I could find.
> 
> Also... Yes, this is based in what used to be France/Western Europe. Sorry Ms Collins, but I highly doubt that the only country to survive an apocalypse of any kind would be the USA.
> 
> And finally, a lot of the motivation for this fic and its predecessor was found listening to Bastille's Bad Blood album, a book called 'Pure' by Julianna Baggott, and spending much too long sitting on trains. And the entire thing came from one little mental image of Grantaire kissing Enjolras' forehead before he was fired up into the arena... which, I believe, didn't even make it into the final cut.
> 
> Amazing, right?


End file.
